


We Can't Go Back

by headphones



Category: Glee
Genre: Amnesia, F/F, Survival, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4275591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headphones/pseuds/headphones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you survive when you don't remember surviving?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things Gone Wrong

 

_N̗̬͕̟o͍̱͓̟͘,͔̦̩͕̪̠͟ ͉̳̩̪͠n̬͔͘o̖̰̫̻,͏̺̟̜̭̳̘ ̭̭͙̣no͙͉̜͓̝ͅ,͖͉̖͟ͅ ͎ņ͇̟̪̲ò̩͚̞͔̪̖̦!̳̖̱̞̲̜̦_

_R̰̙̹͍͔̓̒ͩͥ̈́ͅa͓̭̳͆͗͑c͈͕̲̩̦̈̾h̞̯͓̲ͦ͐͊͋̀e̝̿̃ͮ̾̏͑ḷ͓͇̟̜,͕͇̟̞͚̥̪ͯ ͊p̦̝͔̬͔͖̽͌̌͋͛ͮl͖̯̳͉͐ͦé̻̗̘̌̽̈̐a͕ͩ̓́ͪ̅ś͈̟̤̗̿͌̔ͅe̳͍̦̻̘̚ **!̠͕̱͍̈́ͮͣ̐̚**_

_Pͬ̀ͯ̅̃̽̌̚l͊ͤ͛ě͆ͭ̊̇ä́sͭͨ́ͣ͌e̎ͥͮ_ **…͌̃̿** ͮ̉̌

  
**…͊ͥ** _p̆ͥl̅͌ͫͣͥ̍ͧe͋͊͊ͪ̀àͫseͭͩ̃̌̿̚ ̎̄̐do͌̊ͭn͊͊̃͗̚'̊ͭ͐̓tͬ͗͋ ͆̋͗ͪ̿l͛e̓̋͋̏̊ȃ͒v̋̂̒ͬͦe̿ ͊͊ͮm͐̓̽e̐̉ͤ̓ͨͥ **.̃ͭ͋ͩ̈͒ͮ.ͮ͒.́̇̃̈́̊**_  
… _plea͝se dǫn't͠ l̛eav̛e m̀e_ **.̢.͏.͡**  
**…̘͉͚͇** _p͈͇̖͇l̮͉e̞̫͚͔͓a̲̣̞̟͚s͓͕̹̖͖ͅe͇͚̲̫̹̞͍ ͙̳̬͇̪ͅḓ̬o̻͈͚̲ṉ̼'̫̖̭̳t̹̳̯̖͍̣ ̜͉̙̰͇̺le̻̱̲̰̻ḁ͕͇̲͉͎̺v̭̭͔e͓̗̱̦ ̺m͕͈̪͔͇e͚̙̞̥̳̜_.̭͈̩̭̭̬.̜.̤

 

 

 

The haze lifts slowly. She feels like she's swimming to the surface from very deep and dark waters. Her mind is floating, drifting peacefully. There's light somewhere above her. But all is still murky around the edges. It moves and swells, but not like the tide. She slowly blinks. Once, twice.

Has she fallen asleep?

Her other senses gradually come back into focus again. She's lying, cocooned in something soft and warm on what she realizes is the backseat of a moving car. The motion nearly coaxes her back to sleep again. The low and steady hum of the engine is the only sound she hears and the light above comes through the window looking out onto an overcast sky.

The sun isn't shining.

But it's still bright, too bright even, and it hurts her eyes. So she closes them. Everything still feels hazy. And her cocoon is starting to feel a bit too warm. She stirs and tries to find a different, more comfortable position. Except she can't. The more she tugs, the more she notices the coarse material digging into her wrists. Her hands are tied. Her feet seem to be, too. The burst of adrenaline almost makes her nauseous and her eyes snap open. Her breathing increases as her panic rises. She's wrapped in a puffy sleeping bag, which makes it even harder to move, but she manages to roll herself over, so that she's facing the front of the vehicle and has a good view of the driv--

"Quinn?!"

She hears a long exhale. Rachel's panic is replaced by indignation.

"Quinn, what the hell?" the brunette asks in disbelief, "Untie me this second!"

She tugs at the restrains around her wrist to no avail.

"Welcome back, Rachel." Quinn's voice is soft, almost reverend, but the words don't register with Rachel, who is too busy trying to sit up. She succeeds as far as propping her back against the car door. Her eyes burn holes into the back of the driver's headrest.

"Quinn, stop the car," Rachel demands, firmly.

She doesn't expect her plea to work and she's ready to repeat herself more loudly when, much to her surprise, the car stops.

Oh. Well, good.

"Quinn, look at me."

There's a lull in which she sees the blonde's hands faintly wring the steering wheel. One inhale later she's met with hazel eyes. She cannot read what goes on behind them.

"Quinn, why are my hands tied," she shakes them for emphasis, "and--" it's then that she notices the scenery outside - the two-lane road, the sparse forests, the fields, the unfamiliar flat landscape. This isn't Ohio. "--where even _are we_?"

"Somewhere North-East of Fargo," comes the steady response.

"We're in MINNESOTA?!"

Quinn frowns at that. "Yes, we are still in Minnesota," she begins slowly, but then pauses. "Rachel, what's the last thing you remember?"

Good question. Because now that Rachel thinks about it, what _does_ she remember? She mentally quickly flips through her memories. Something feels off. Her gaze leaves Quinn's and slides downward, not focused on anything in particular. Maybe if she goes over her memories out loud, the rest will fall in place. "Well...I remember it was spring and since my _busy_ schedule allowed it, I thought it only sensible to go back to Lima to visit my dads. And then somebody suggested that we have a glee club reunion. At least the ones of us that were in town. And..." this is where she starts to realize her memory is getting fuzzy, "and then..." she can't quite recall, "And then we--" It's like a movie, but there are scenes obviously missing. Like someone edited them out. Or like when she had a hangover. But worse. Did she even drink? Did she do anything worse than drink? Something, that would have caused her to black out? Or did somebody _cause_ her to black o--"ohmygodQuinnFabray, you kidnapped me, didn't you?!"

It isn't much of a question. Rachel is sure. Suddenly it all makes sense! The disorientation, the bound hands and feet, the unfamiliar car, the highway going through nowhere...

But Quinn's features are frozen in a mixture of an incredulous, almost horrified expression.

"I… _what_!?"

"I understand that we always had our differences and we didn't see eye-to-eye on a myriad of issues, moral or otherwise, but I was fairly certain we buried that antagonistic hatchet a long time ago. So I really see no reason to exhume that proverbial weapon now."

If Quinn thinks that she can tie her up and drag her across state lines, she has another thing coming. No siree. Rachel has this. She is on a roll and she will talk her way out of this mess.

"Really, this is just one big misunderstanding. If there's anything I said or did last night at the reunion that upset you, you will have to refresh my memory, so I can express my deep and profound apology to you, because since you drugged me-"

" _Drugged_ you?"

"Yes, drugged me, Quinn, and since you did that I have trouble recollecting events neither chronologically, nor in their clarity. But I am sure we can reach a mutual understanding. Unless… Unless you had plotted this in advance and we are actually in Minnesota, because you plan to dispose of my lifeless and mutilated-beyond-recognition body in these parts, so that it will take the police months to discover, let alone _identify_ my remains, but even so I would like you to reconsider for the following reasons: "

"Rachel."

"Quinn. You have _such_ a bright future ahead of you. A criminal record--"

" _Rachel._ "

"But seriously. And statistically speaking--"

"Rachel, STOP."

Rachel clamps down. Well. Either her litany had the desired effect on the blonde's conscience or Quinn will gag her now.

"Rachel, I don't plan to murder you."

"Oh?... good. In that case I suggest you turn this vehicle around as I have several important engagements lined up for this week and I still have to retrieve some personal items from Lima and I promise I won't press any charges, we can just play this off as an impromptu road trip--"

"Rachel, we cannot go back to Lima."

"Why not?"

"...because there is no Lima anymore."

Is Quinn speaking in some weird metaphors? What does she mean? "How can there be no Lima?"

Another pause. Rachel's not sure whether it is because Quinn's deliberating what to say next or how to say it or whether it is disbelief at Rachel's oblivion. Or all of the above.

Nevertheless, her answer comes with the same tone one uses for presenting hard-hitting facts: "Because the world as we know it ended."

" _Ended_? Ended how?"

Quinn takes a breath and looks up in exasperation, searching for the right words.

"The Undead."

" _The Undead._ "

"Zombies."

Rachel is stunned into silence. She quickly snaps herself out of it.

"Quinn, my dad knows an excellent psychiatrist, I'm sure we can get you some help if only-"

She's interrupted by something between a choked out laugh and a sob. Quinn's looking up again, but now she's also blinking rapidly. She draws another deep breath, steadies herself.

"No." Quinn faintly shakes her head. But she's not replying to Rachel.She's not replying to anyone in particular. She murmurs, forlornly, "This isn't happening," before she turns back in her seat facing front. Her voice sounds more nasal than usual. Rachel begrudgingly thinks that should have been her line.

The conversation is apparently over for the moment.

\---

They ride in silence. Well, Rachel does. Quinn's driving. And safe for a few shuddering breaths she hasn't let out a single sound ever since Rachel so blatantly dismissed Quinn's sanity. Because she is. Really though, what _sane_ person _ties_ you up, _drugs_ you, drives you up to _Minnesota_ and then tries blaming it on _zombies_?! Not a mentally stable one, that's for sure. Which means Rachel will have to play her cards very carefully, because this is a whole different deck of crazy. How do you reason with a severely deranged person? Rachel needs to think.

Instead she wonders. She wonders what may have caused Quinn to flip. She wonders when did Quinn actually snap and how long did she have everybody around her fooled. How long had she been passing for normal? Cool, poised, always a little distant, -Quinn Fabray. Is Rachel her first victim? Is she her only victim? How long did she plan this? When did she drug her? How long was she drugging her, for Rachel to black out all the way from Ohio to Minnesota?

Rachel frowns at the sleeping bag covering her lap. She must've been out of it for a few days. No wonder her recollection is impaired. Rachel worries what impact this may have on her career. Oh god, she hopes she didn't suffer any permanent brain damage! She needs to be able to recall whole scripts! She needs to verify her capacities, she needs to be sure! She needs to find something to memorize and then see if she can remember it in 10 minutes, an hour, so forth. Yes, good, she pats herself on the back for the idea.

She scrutinizes her surroundings for something to memorize. Some text, anything really. On the back seat there's nothing but her and her lower half, still sheathed in a sleeping bag. Which is caked in dried up mud at the feet for some reason, she notes. The front of the car bares nothing of use to her either. So she looks outside. There's bound to be some signs along the road. Or she could memorize other cars' license plates, too.

But no other cars pass them. She's been looking out for one for a solid 10 minutes (she keeps checking the clock on the dashboard). Rachel should find this strange, but she figures this _is_ Minnesota, after all. And the road stretches ahead of them and behind them in one dull, flat, line. The trees are also kind of odd. It's only spring and some have already turned yellow, orange or red... Must be some special Minnesota tree breeds. Do trees even have breeds--?

_'Gas station. 10 miles ahead.'_

The sign they pass is really just a picture and a number, but it effectively yanks Rachel out of her lethargy. If she's going to act, she better act fast. If she can somehow convince Quinn to untie her feet, she figures she'd be able to run the distance to the gas station and plead with them to hide her, call the police, _something_.

Right. Act. Rachel can do that. She just needs a clever ruse.

"Quinn...?"

No answer. Which is to be expected.

Rachel's not a quitter.

She regroups and flexes her feet. If she's supposed to run a few miles, better wake up the circulation and limber up a little.

Albeit her means are very limited considering her confines, Rachel stretches out her toes and feels a weird dull ache beneath her right knee. But as time is of the essence, she cannot wonder about its origin, especially, since it gives her a sudden idea.

Her features transform from determined to scrunched in discomfort as she fluently transitions into acting-mode.

"Quinn." she starts in a very concerned tone of voice, "Quinn, we really need to stop."

Unsurprisingly, there is yet again no response.

"I... I think there's something wrong with my leg."

Nothing. Well, Rachel isn't above staging a pained crying fit, would the situation demand it. Still, the build up to it is crucial and vital for its success.

"Quinn. Did you tie me up too tight or something? My leg's really throbbing and it's kind of starting to really hurt."

That isn't entirely a lie. Her leg does feel odd. But maybe it is also a tad over exaggerated.

And it seems to be working, because from where she is sitting, she sees the hands on the steering wheel wring it slightly.

"Quinn I'm serious! A disturbed blood flow can lead to thrombosis (also known as blood clot), which in turn can cause oxygen deprivation in my lower extremity resulting in tissue death and ultimately - necrosis. And while I don't suppose (or kind of _hope_ , really) that you have the necessary tools for a spontaneous amputation at hand, it would still be the better case scenario, because the alternative to that is the blood clot traveling and causing pulmonary embolus. And Quinn Fabray, you cannot, in all good conscience, just leave me here to suffer through crushing chest pain and the consequences of mass oxygen deprivation!"

There. Although, on second thought, Quinn might not be the perfect candidate to who's _conscience_ one should choose to appeal to. Which leaves Rachel with plan B-

"Quinn..." her voice adopts a decidedly weepy tone, "I don't want to lose my leg…" Cue lip slightly curling, corners of the mouth downcast, "How will I star on Broadway without a leg…?" Eyes welling up, "Peg-legged actresses don't get many leads…"

The exhale that follows in response is a long and scoffing one. Rachel strains her ears for something more, some acknowledgement, a gritted 'fine' in irritation, but she's only met with more of the same silent treatment.

Outside in the distance she spots the gas station and her heart starts sinking with disappointment. They will drive by and Rachel pictures her window of opportunity firmly slamming shut.

But her heart rate spikes right up again as she feels the vehicle slowing down. The car, however, doesn't turn to one of the parking spots, but rather comes to a halt by the side of the road a good fifty feet away.

Quinn shuts off the gas and remains seated, staring at the station for a moment. As if she were waiting. Or watching.

She then turns her whole body in her seat bracing herself with one hand against the opposite seat. She levels Rachel with a serious stare.

"Alright. I _will_ check your feet. But, Rachel, whatever you do, you _have to_ stay quiet," she slowly enunciates. "Do you understand?"

If Rachel's escape plan is to be successful, she needs to come across as cooperative. She nods, solemnly.

As Quinn gets out of the car and goes for the back door, Rachel mentally runs through all of her options and potential actions one more time. This is it. It's showtime.

The blonde opens the back door and Rachel wills her body to relax, but it's incredibly difficult not to tense up when Quinn reaches to her hip to pull the zipper down and untuck her from within the sleeping bag. She checks the restrains around both ankles and frowns. Rachel's breath catches a little, because the next thing she knows, Quinn's untying them and rubbing her calves in a soothing motion. At last she rolls the fabric on both of her legs up (and Rachel notes she doesn't remember putting on cargo pants. Ever.) and checks for discoloration or excessive bruising.

Satisfied with having found neither, she gently sets Rachel's leg down again and looks up at the brunette.

"There. Better, I hope?"

Soft hazel meets brown and the faintest, almost hopeful smile ghosts Quinn's lips.

It's a moment in time. And Rachel wishes she could stop and linger on it, because earning Quinn's smile always felt like an achievement, mostly because they were few and far between.

But time does not stop and wait for Rachel. It cannot. _She_ cannot.

So she uses this moment to kick Quinn square in the face.

The blonde goes flying backwards, landing hard on her ass. Rachel scrambles, grasping at the door handle she's been leaning against. With her hands still tied it takes a bit of fumbling, but she is successful. She tumbles out on the other side of the car and she doesn't even wait till she's fully upright before she starts running toward the gas station.

"Help! Somebody help!" she yells, almost victoriously. "I've been kidnapped! Help!"

There's a smaller pickup parked by one of the pumps and much to Rachel's relief, when she nears it, she spots a male figure standing by its trunk. With relief, she comes to a halt, panting heavily from exertion and adrenaline.

"Oh my god, sir. I am so glad to make your acquaintance. Please, you have to help me. You see, I've been abducted against my will and my captor is right behind me. Please," she prattles on, "help me fend her off and call the authorities. My gratitude to you will definitely come with a heartfelt financial reimbursement for your troubles and kindn--" Rachel's smile and speech wavers.

Because the figure that at first glance looks as someone leaning against a small van, stirs and at the sound of Rachel's voice slowly starts turning. Rachel reasons with herself that it's just the angle, just the dimness of the gas station. Her serendipitous savior is not missing it, his arm is just outstretched somewhere in front of him. But the more he turns toward her, the more the daylight reveals in graphic detail just how wrong Rachel's assumption is.

Or how 'not right' he is.

A wheezy, yet gurgling moan escapes from his throat.

Or what's left of it.

And it's at that exact moment that Rachel's legs decide to give out.


	2. Chapter 2

There have been times when Rachel had experienced the phenomenon known as sensory overload. Yet those times were mostly musical-related, aesthetically pleasing times. Her current state could be described in a similar way, though it is decidedly far from pleasant. Also it isn't as much her senses as it is her _emotions_ that are the ones overloading her.

There's the shock, there's disgust, there's fear of the creature shambling towards her, there's disappointment from a failed salvation, and then there's the crumbling disbelief at realizing Quinn was telling the truth. All at the same time.

And Rachel is just sitting there, overwhelmed and gaping. The pain from falling off her feet doesn't even register.

The gurgling figure doesn't care. It approaches with heavy, almost greedy, footsteps.

Rachel wills her feet to move, but she is too disoriented, too uncoordinated to stand up, especially with her hands tied in front of her. Her eyes are wide with horror, but she cannot tear them away. She is the deer in the headlights, scooting backwards from a walker that's unfortunately advancing at a faster rate.

He looks almost ready to take that final lunge at Rachel, when there's a-

"Hey!"

A shiny blur connects with its head. The zombie tips sideways, stumbling. Another blow follows and the zombie tumbles to the ground. The light catches the metal of the baseball bat as Quinn raises it above her head, then brings it down with force against its neck. Or at least Rachel thinks it's the neck, because her line of sight is obstructed by Quinn's feet firmly planted on the ground between Rachel and the zombie.

After nudging the re-deceased corpse with the bat, Quinn turns around. Hands on her hips, jaw firmly set, she glares at Rachel, before Quinn's eyes start darting all over the brunette, checking.

Rachel feels like she lets out a breath she's been holding for who knows how long, while Quinn looks like she's two seconds away from giving Rachel a very explicit piece of her mind. And maybe it's the apprehension of a stern talking that makes Rachel blurt out.

"Quinn! You bludgeoned that poor guy dead!" is the first thing that comes to mind and from Rachel's lips and it effectively confuses the blonde for a split second.

"Huh?...Rachel! He's _already_ dead!" Quinn grits out.

But part of Rachel's brain still dwells on denial. "What if he had like a really bad skin condi-?"

"He's missing an _arm_!"

"But-"

"YOU CAN SEE THE BONE STICKING OUT!"

At Quinn's shouting the zombie behind them wheezes weakly.

"Mother-FUCKER!" Quinn whirls around.

Rachel looks away. She can't watch, but unfortunately, she definitely _hears_ the gruesome cracking that soon turns into squelching.

When it sounds safe to look again, she sees Quinn still with her back to her, shoulders rising and falling from exertion. Rachel dares not look lower than that.

With a final huff, Quinn makes it to Rachel's side in three brisk strides. A hand reaches beneath Rachel's arm and nearly drags her to her feet.

"Come on," Quinn urges, "before there's more of them."

Anticipating Rachel's question, she adds, "Noise draws them."

They hurry back to the car and Rachel is rather unceremoniously shoved into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind her. So much for niceties.

Before the brunette manages to grunt her way back into an upright position, the car is already back on the road. Her hair is all over her face and the restraints make it a little difficult to comb through with her fingers. Also the throbbing in her leg returns and Rachel hisses as she tries to find a more comfortable angle for it.

"Are you okay back there?"

Somehow that makes Rachel's irritation even worse. She's aware that she's been asking stupid questions, but this one takes the cake.

"Are you actually serious?" the brunette snaps.

She braces herself for a verbal fight, the likes of which she and Quinn have had too many times to count, but it never comes. Instead she receives an awkward and mumbled: "Yeah, uh, that was… a dumb thing to ask. Sorry," and silence falls between them once again, which just fuels Rachel's rage further.

And she wants to be angry with Quinn. How dare she deprive her of that fight? How dare she yell at her, but give her no opportunity to yell back, how dare she tie her up and manhandle her, how dare she bash an undead's skull in right in front of Rachel and have the _nerve_ to ask if she's ok, but then she _still_ won't speak to her?!

Rachel wants to kick her seat, she really does. She wants to kick and scream. And she wants to stay angry at Quinn. Even though, technically, she called Quinn a lunatic for being honest with her. And when Quinn went to check her legs, she kicked her in the face. And, ok, for a second Rachel kind of was concerned more for the zombie than the person who saved her from it. Not to mention the hostile retort.

Great. Now she's angry about having no right to be angry. Because Quinn kind of does have a right to be upset with her and not be talking to her. But to make matters worse, Quinn didn't even sound upset. She just sounded… dejected. Rachel feels her anger dissipate. Now she just feels sullen about the whole thing.

As much as she doesn't want to, there's that tiny urge to apologize that starts to gnaw at her conscience. Yeah, she doesn't know where she would even start with that. Her head falls against the window pane with a dull thud. The scenery moving outside would be almost soothing in its serenity, were it not for her newly attained awareness of its _lack_ of liveliness. She notices it now, the telling details. The unharvested fields, the dried overgrown grass by the roadside, an unattended tractor, the lack of any vehicle other than theirs. So much can change in so little time.

Something about that thought doesn't sit right with Rachel. Something doesn't add up. But if she wasn't drugged, why can't she remember?

"When did it end?" Rachel muses out loud.

"Back in April," comes the soft response from behind the wheel and it almost startles Rachel.

"Excuse me?"

"The world, right?" Quinn glances back over her shoulder. "You were wondering when the world had ended."

Rachel is stuck between glad that Quinn seems to be talking to her and surprised at the accuracy of the blonde's guess. This is the second time this has happened today. When did Quinn develop such a good read on her?

"R-right. Yes." But wait a minute- " _Back_ in April?"

"You really don't remember," Quinn concedes.

"Don't remember _what?_ " Rachel presses.

"Rachel, it's October."

Her head starts spinning. It's October. She's missing memories all the way from April to October.

"What happened to me?" Her voice is shaking. Her body starts, too.

Quinn shoots her another, very concerned, glance.

"What happened to me, Quinn?" Rachel reiterates, "Why can't I remember?"

Quinn bites her lip, but doesn't answer. Instead she averts her eyes from the frantic brunette and turns to face the road.

"You…" the blonde begins, "You fell ill. We, um, we had no medicine for the fever." Quinn huffs a deep breath. "You were really out of it." She glances back again, giving Rachel a mournful little smile. "We did all that we could, but I guess… you lost your memories in the process."

Rachel folds her arms. If she knows one thing, it's when Quinn Fabray's hiding something. Or deflecting. Or outright lying to her.

And she's about to call her out on it when Quinn's voice interjects with a concern-inducing - "Oh no."

The car slowly stops.

"What? What?" Rachel worriedly peeks from behind the headrest of the other seat.

'Oh no' turns out to be at least a dozen of cars blocking the T-intersection ahead. They all seem deserted, as if everyone left in a hurry. The doors left wide open. Enough of a tell.

Quinn cranes her neck, evaluating their surroundings and options. Unfortunately, there's a deep enough ditch on each side of the road, but Quinn seems to think the car suspension can take it and they could drive around the obstructions through the adjacent field.

The blonde shifts into reverse, moving back and to the side a few feet. But her head tilts and she stares curiously at the steering wheel. She shifts again, moving forward gently towards the side of the road. Rachel hears the crackling of gravel and grips the seat in front of her, anticipating the vehicle pitching forward. It never does. Instead, Quinn shuts off the engine abruptly and rushes out. Rachel sees her standing by the front of the car, looking at something on the ground. Rachel can't quite make out what Quinn is inspecting, but if something has her worried, she definitely doesn't let it show. The blonde looks out into the field and the jammed road before she returns to the driver's seat. Quinn's head falls down onto the steering wheel with a long defeated groan. Rachel is about to ask her what's wrong, but instead she slightly jumps in her seat when Quinn's fists unexpectedly hit the dashboard out of sheer frustration. All events considered, apocalypse notwithstanding, Rachel imagines Quinn is having a severely bad day.

She hears the habitual deep breath. For a long moment, Quinn stares at the horizon to her right, expressionless and mute, and Rachel has to admire how quickly the blonde can regain her composure.

"Right," Quinn mutters.

She turns the car around ever so carefully and keeps the speed to an almost pace even when they are back on solid asphalt.

To say Rachel is confused would be an understatement. "Um, Quinn?"

"Yes, Rachel?"

"Why are we headed back?

"…We have a flat tire," Quinn reluctantly mumbles.

"Whe WHAT?! Quinn, you can't drive on a flat tire! Aren't you going to change it?!"

" Not here I can't. Ain't got the proper tools. We might have some luck at the gas station though."

"Besides," Quinn continues, "Those other cars may have looked empty, but I sure as hell am not gonna risk getting ambushed while changing a tire. "

Rachel shivers at the thought. Quinn does have a point; something about that place didn't exactly feel deserted.

With another long stare towards the horizon Quinn adds, "Might as well set up camp there for tonight. It will get dark soon."

\---

When they arrive at the gas station, Quinn goes to open Rachel's door, but before the brunette disembarks, she holds up her wrists accompanied by an aggravated stare.

"Can you untie me now?"

Quinn raises an eyebrow.

" _Please?_ "

"Why? So you can work some more on that black eye you tried to give me?"

Rachel grimaces.

"Yeah, I… sorry 'bout that," she mumbles.

Quinn gives her a blank stare, obviously expecting her to elaborate on her apology. However, Rachel struggles to formulate one, pursing her lips and avoiding Quinn's gaze. Quinn shakes her head and produces a hunting knife from the confines of her jacket, slicing through the knot of her restrains.

"Come on," Quinn tilts her head towards the trunk, "at least you can help me carry our stuff."

\---

Rachel is a bit taken aback when Quinn's idea of 'setting up camp' is revealed to be… on the roof of the gas station.

But the way Quinn puts it makes sense: as opposed to inside - they can have an open fire on the roof; they have better visibility of their surroundings on the roof; the inside of the gas station has only one entrance/exit and the space is limited by racks and rows; and most importantly -

"…zombies are lousy climbers," Quinn explains. "They just lack the coordination," she adds and sets down the crate with their supplies down next to the air conditioning unit.

"Here," she gestures for Rachel to put down the sleeping bags, "We should be shielded from the wind and in case it starts to rain," Quinn pulls out a folded tarp-like material from the crate, "I can attach this to the large HVAC behind us, so we'll have a makeshift shelter, even."

Rachel nods in silent awe.

"You really seem to know your stuff," she comments.

"I… picked up a few skills over the months," Quinn replies with a humbled little smile and seeing the shadow of regret creep over Rachel's features, she quickly adds, "but so did you."

"I guess," Rachel begins hesitantly, "you'll just have to teach me again."

Quinn dips her head as to catch Rachel's stare. "Yeah. I will," she says reassuringly.

A few hours later both girls are sitting by the fire, comfortable and sated. Rachel at first scrunched her nose at the can of beans, but seeing as the alternative was Quinn's can of lunch meat, her hunger convinced her to take what she could get.

But now, staring at the dancing flames, Rachel can be content with silence only for so long. She has still so many questions for Quinn. Yet she knows, the more she presses for answers, the less communicative will Quinn likely become. Rachel needs to choose her topics wisely.

"Quinn?"

"Hmm?" Quinn's eyes never leave the fire.

"How did it happen?... The outbreak I mean."

Quinn sighs deeply."I don't know. We never found out. One moment we were reminiscing about high school, the next we just kept on running."

"So, when you say 'we'...?"Rachel probed cautiously.

Quinn glances sideways, "The glee club. Or at least those of us who were in town for the reunion."

Rachel tries to recall she faces that were present that night. It takes a lot of effort, but she's pretty certain she spoke to Tina, Sam, Artie and Mike, Puck even, Brittany, Santana... Quinn. Her heart suddenly clenches. Kurt and Blaine had stayed in New York. Mercedes was out West. And Finn? It's been a few years since Finn...

Rachel exhales shakily. A sense of dread starts slowly creeping up her spine and tears well up in her eyes. She has to keep it together, but her emotions are getting the better of her and she has to know, she just has to.

"My _dads_?"

Quinn's eyes slightly widen and then squint with sorrow.

"They're gone, Rachel. All of our families are," she says softly. "The best thing you can do is not think about it."

Rachel chokes. She presses her palms to her eyes, bites her lip, does everything she can to rein it in. It takes her a while of deep breaths and blank staring, ironically enough _willing_ her mind not to drench up any memories.

"So now it's just you and me? Alive?"

"No."

Hope sparks within the brunette. Against her better judgment she doesn't relent.

"So where are the others? Are we going to meet up with them?"

"They headed up North. We can't rejoin them." Quinn's tone is silent, but firm.

"Why not?"

"Because they were headed for a military base."

"What?!" Rachel can't believe her ears. "We would be _safe_ there!"

"No we would _not_ ," Quinn growls.

"Quinn! Military bases have fortifications, resources, everything! They probably have a refugee camp set up and can communicate with other camps! I could- We could-"

"You don't get it, do you?!" Quinn spits out."Rachel, we can't go back to Lima and we can't go back and rejoin the others and we _can't_ go to that military base!" Quinn opens her mouth, grimaces, shakes her head. "The throbbing in your leg? Rachel, you were _bitten._ You were bitten, but you didn't turn. And I'm sure as hell not gonna let the people at that camp turn you into a guinea pig."


	3. Chapter 3

 

"And I'm sure as hell not gonna let the people at that camp turn you into a guinea pig!"

She regrets her words as soon as they're out of her mouth. She promised herself she wouldn't do this. All in due time. Not like this. Not just dump it on Rachel in one frustrated outburst.

Rachel's features go through various stages of shock to mute horror as the grave news sinks in. Eventually, all emotion seems to just drain from her and the brunette's stare turns blank. Involuntarily it makes Quinn think back to the last time she saw those brown eyes so dull and--

She can't watch. Quinn stands abruptly. She's not good at this; she's never really been good at this. If she stays, there's no guarantee that she won't make matters worse. And there is just so much one can take in the course of a single day. She decides to go walk the perimeter, check up on things. It'll give both her and Rachel some much-needed space.

The air is cool, but for a night in October it's not awfully cold yet. Still Quinn digs her fists into the pockets of her coat. The moon is hidden behind clouds and the light from the fire barely reaches her, so she needs to feel with her foot for the ledge to make sure she's standing at a safe distance from it. One can never be too careful. Squinting into the darkness won't do any good. Quinn rather relies on her ears. But save for a few cicadas, everything is deadly silent. Quinn stands there, just listening, and when she's satisfied with the inactivity she moves to the next side of the rectangular roof.

She's tense. She's tense with worry and with the burden of _double_ the responsibility now resting on her sole shoulders. The problem with all the things that had gone wrong… with some it just didn't end there. Like with the flat tire. On one hand the timing couldn't have been worse, but on the other she's glad that whichever deity was listening in on her prayers granted them safe passage back to the gas station. Would the tire have deflated any quicker or would it have had broken down in the middle of the field they tried to cross, leaving them practically stranded… Quinn closes her eyes, frowning.

Ok, lucky break or not, she's still the one who needs to replace it. She was so preoccupied with getting them to safety and setting up camp that she didn't even get to do a proper sweep of their surroundings before darkness fell. Quinn shakes her head, reprimanding herself internally. This is not how they do things, but now she can only hope that whatever may still lurk inside the gas station will wait until daylight for her to deal with it.

She finishes her round and approaching their camp site Quinn notices that Rachel is already lying down. She's not sure whether she's asleep, because Rachel has her back to her. Quinn feels a pang of guilt at that. But she figures it's for the best.

Quinn sits down again, pulling her sleeping bag over her shoulders like a blanket. She busies her mind with planning the next day, going through the itinerary of things that need to be done. But her eyes keep wandering back to the petite brunette a few feet away from her.

She wishes they could… no. It's not an option. It may not ever be again. That is a fact. One she has to cope with. She isn't, yet she is alone in this.

And it's going to be a long night, because there's no one to switch shifts with her to keep watch.

\---

Rachel doesn't wake up from a bad dream.

She wishes she would have, because then the roof beneath her wouldn't be real, the smell of the camp fire wouldn't be real and the world wouldn't have gone to hell. Hopefully. But unlike the previous day, she doesn't get eased into consciousness. Events and facts slam into her mind with the unabashedness of a freight train and she's wide awake.

Rachel is far from well rested. She cannot imagine how she managed for the last six or so months. It isn't even as much the lying on a hard surface, but the confinement of her sleeping bag makes her body feel stiff and unpleasant all over. Add to that the fact that part of her brain kept her semi-alert all through the night, ears straining to pick up any unusual noises. Not that she didn't trust Quinn to keep them safe. As far as she could recall, Quinn sat by the fire, leaving it only once or twice to make her rounds. Come to think of it, Rachel's not sure the blonde slept at all. Just that she was _there_ , and that Rachel couldn't bear to look at her.

It just had been too much. To deal with, to acknowledge, to reconcile. As if that was even possible. She had a whole restless night to show for that. But most importantly - Rachel needed to handle that on her own. Not because verbalizing her inner turmoil in front of Quinn wouldn't be received well. But because she was afraid what other realizations and reveals it might lead to. Something inside her already folded upon itself that night, so she rather curled up and willed herself into a blank state of mind.

Similar to the kind she still experiences whenever she attempts to remember anything from the last six months. This state is nothing like when one can't remember where one had left their keys. There are no flashbacks, no fragments to piece together. Just a great big gap.

But Rachel _needs_ them back. Not merely out of some sense of curiosity. Simply put, Rachel needs the memories of her survival for pragmatic reasons. And if she won't be able to get them back on her own, there's only one other person to turn to. And if that means she'll have to tip-toe, pry or prod Quinn to fill in the blanks, then so be it. Rachel has endured worse than a few scowls and snarls at the hands of Quinn Fabray…

…which actually isn't all that reassuring. This is indeed Quinn and although it has been a few years since high school, some of the former head cheerleader's short-fused temper is obviously still intact. And Rachel has, unfortunately enough, always been the one to push her absolutely worst buttons. So what if she ends up pushing one too many? What if Quinn realizes Rachel's still as unbearable as when they were sixteen and decides she wants nothing to do with the brunette? Or what if Rachel proves herself so useless without her (forgotten) skills, that Quinn concludes she's better off without her and abandons Rachel somewhere along the road? What if--

\--but if that were the case, why _didn't_ Quinn abandon her already when she got bit? Why did she come running after her to the gas station swinging a baseball bat yesterday when it would've been so easy to just drive on and let Rachel get mauled? Why Quinn?

Rachel turns over in search for the blonde in question and finds her placing a larger tin can filled with water onto the smoldering coals. Carefully finishing the task Quinn's eyes move to meet Rachel's. Much to her relief there's no resentment in them and maybe a dash of remorse, Rachel observes.

"Morning," comes the softly spoken greeting. There's no 'good' added and Rachel realizes she understands why. She also wonders when was the last time either of them had a _good_ morning anyway.

"Morning," Rachel echoes, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

"I'm making coffee if you want some," Quinn gestures toward the water.

Rachel blinks.

"We have coffee???"

"Yeah. But you have to wait a few minutes. This isn't exactly an espresso machine."

Rachel nods and draws her knees up to rest her chin on as she watches steam slowly form and rise from the can. In the meantime Quinn returns to sitting Indian-style, intensely poring over a map spread in front of her. Rachel studies her, noting the dark circles beneath Quinn's eyes and the general exhaustion evident on her features. How is it possible that even with no makeup on the blonde still manages to look so hauntingly flawless?

"What are you doing?" slips out before Rachel can remind herself she wanted to maybe tone it down a little with the questioning.

"Memorizing the map," Quinn replies simply.

Rachel's lips part. "The _entire_ map??"

Quinn frowns at that. "…No?"

"Not the entire map," Quinn corrects, "more like trying to figure out where we are now and what route to take next." She then reaches to uncap the marker she's been holding and draws a crossed shape where one road meets another."It's a lot like learning choreography," Quinn continues, "you know – left, left, right, straight up, around and back again."

Quinn's finger traces a line on the map as she explains this, stopping and turning at what Rachel guesses is the roadblock they've encountered yesterday. She also notices countless other scribbles and markings all over the map. Some are of different color, some have definitely been written by more than one person.

"Like dance steps." Quinn concludes with a faint smile.

They are interrupted by the bubbling from their makeshift kettle.

The coffee is decent, given the circumstances, and inspires some small talk. Rachel is thankful for it, because it definitely helps for things to feel less tense between them. Pleasant even. Which is why Rachel gets the niggling urge that maybe since they seem to be on good terms again, she should apologize to the blonde for shutting her out after the big reveal.

"Quinn?" she stares into her coffee, but then lifts her eyes wide with honesty, "about last night…"

Quinn's eyes snap to hers. A look of almost panic flashes across them.

"Rachel… I need to go check the gas station," she blurts out, hurriedly getting to her feet. "For supplies. And those tools."

She's gone before Rachel can stop her.

\---

That was very cowardly, Quinn admits to herself as she's climbing off the roof. She cannot keep avoiding confrontation like this all the time. But then again no one in their right mind cares for confrontation with their morning coffee and neither does Quinn. Right now she has bigger fish to fry and more pressing matters to attend to. She needs to concentrate on the task at hand and she cannot afford worrying whether she hurt Rachel's feelings. Again.

She grips the bat in her left hand more tightly and reaches into her coat with her right. Her fingers find the button of the holster and pluck it open. Just in case. The weight of the gun against her ribs feels reassuring, yet she really hopes she won't have to use it.

The front entrance opens slowly and Quinn scans the upper part of the doorframe for any bells or other mechanisms used to alert the clerks of a new customer. Thankfully there are none. Daylight seeps in through the large windows, so Quinn has a nice view of the racks and rows of the convenience store part of the interior. Dishearteningly enough, looters and scavengers have stripped the place bare of all food and liquids, safe for a few dozen of sandwiches overgrown with mold in the switched off fridges that line the back wall. Thoroughly checking the aisles, she reaches the small part in the far corner dedicated to car maintenance, but it is of no use to her either as it seems to be mostly just motor oil, wiper liquid and coolant. No tools.

Quinn carefully leans over the cashier's counter and finds much of the same emptiness. This is going really well. The only space left unchecked are the back rooms. She has never been to the 'backstage' of a gas station before. She doesn't know what to expect and that makes her queasy. How many rooms are there? How large? Will she be able to react fast enough?

No. Quinn shakes her head loose of uncertainty. She can do this. Even without backup. Rolling her shoulders she approaches the grey door declaring sternly 'EMPLOYEES ONLY' in red letters on a white sticker. Her eyes flicker to the sides, calculating what can be pushed or thrown, should the need of a quick escape arise.

With her left arm outstretched and pressing against the sturdy material the door opens inward. Quinn holds her position and waits, baseball bat ready in her right, listening for any signs of movement. From where she's standing she can see that this room was possibly a lounge area, with a large worn beige sofa on one side that the staff probably used for naps. As Quinn warily steps inside, she notes a dead plant in the corner next to it, a radio on an end table and an empty water dispenser. Quinn is about to try her luck whether she would be able to pour herself a cup from any of the remaining liquid possibly still in the machine when her eyes land on brownish scrapes on the floor next to the sofa. They lead below another door. Quinn takes a deep breath and pushes down on the handle with the bat, keeping a safe distance.

The door creaks, but opens just a few inches before something blocks it from the inside. The blonde glances through the crack. It seems to be the manager's office. Giving the door a firm shove turns out to be more force than necessary. It swings open effortlessly, producing a loud rustling as dozens upon dozens of empty cellophane wrappers get swept away and under it. The office is empty.

A familiar putrid smell hits her nostrils and elicits a grimace from the blonde. Whoever thought hiding in here was a good idea, firstly - didn't think to open a window; and secondly - was an idiot. And by the size of the smeared bloodstain that covers the floor beneath all those wrappers their lack of intellect already secured them an untimely death.

Quinn sourly kicks at the empty plastic. At least they could have spared her some. She could kill for some candy right now.

\---

It's been close to twenty minutes since Quinn rushed off. Rachel doesn't know what to do with the time. She has already rolled up both of their sleeping bags into their respective polyester sacks, cleaned the blade of Quinn's hunting knife and done her stretches to limber up her sleep-stiffened body. It felt good, but now she just feels fully awake and energized and doesn't know what to do with herself. Well, besides snooping through the rest of the belongings that she and Quinn have hauled up the previous evening. Thankfully, she is stubbornly resisting that urge so far.

Speaking of the blonde, there is still no sign of her. Rachel tells herself not to worry. Rachel tells herself to stay put. Rachel fights against her mind delving into catastrophic scenarios. …and fails.

Because what if Quinn needs help? What if, while she's inside, one of those things creeps out from around the corner, catches her off guard, let alone harms Quinn? What if she gets incapacitated? Rachel would never know until it's too late! She wouldn't be there to help Quinn! What help could Rachel even be?

Oh great. Here comes feeling of useless all over again. And worried and panicky. Only now does it fully seep in just how much she actually depends on Quinn. She literally has no one else. At least not in the vicinity. She has no one else. She can't lose Quinn.

\---

Despite her arms straining with effort and the back of her neck starting to perspire, Quinn is glad. Really glad. Because she found a broom closet. The looters apparently forgot to canvas it, otherwise the full replacement jug for the water dispenser wouldn't be there. Now if she could only lug this thing back to the car.

In her joy her ears almost forget to alert her to the carefully muted footsteps coming from the shop area. Almost, but not quite. Quinn squints, immediately shifting to analyze and strategize her surroundings. The small broom closet might become a deadly trap, so hiding there is out of the question. There's also not much space in this narrow hallway to swing a bat efficiently. The gun it is.

She stands behind the open closet door eyeing the exit that leads out to the back of the gas station. Human or undead, slamming the door in their face will give her enough time to run towards the exit at the other end of the hall and, hopefully if it's unlocked, escape. If not, it will put enough distance between Quinn and her assailant for the blonde to get a clear shot.

The ever so light footsteps are definitely approaching now, creeping closer. Quinn's fingers flex around the gun's grip. She licks her lips.

Steady now.

Using the moment of surprise to her advantage Quinn swings the door abruptly and hears a frightened gasp as her supposed foe jumps back. Never missing a beat the blonde steps from behind her cover, arms locked in a practiced stance and firmly pointing the firearm… at Rachel Berry.

Quinn blinks.

"Rachel what the hell?!"

Rachel is obviously caught off guard by-- actually everything that happened in the last few seconds-- but she quickly regains her senses.

"Well I'm glad to see you too, Quinn."

Quinn deflates a little at the sarcasm. "You were supposed to stay at the camp," she sighs.

Rachel tries to go for the "Well you didn't _explicitly_ order me to stay put…", but that only earns her a glare. "…Look. You were gone too long." Her eyes seek out the floor. "I got too worried, okay?"

Quinn feels a distinct pang in her chest. She licks her lips. "Rachel," she tries to look for the right words, because there are too many things the brunette could take the wrong way. "Please don't ever sneak up on me again. I could've seriously hurt you."

She decides she won't berate Rachel for worrying. She won't ask her not to put herself in harm's way. Nowadays that's kind of inevitable. And she most definitely won't berate her for trying to help. Especially, since it's now _her_ responsibility to make sure Rachel will actually be of help. Someday. Again. God, she's thinking like a cheer-captain again. But she has to give Rachel one thing. Had Quinn not heard those footsteps she might have been the one that might have needed to dodge whatever metal tool Rachel was wieldi--

\--"Is that a tire iron?!" She grabs Rachel's wrist to get a better look.

"Uhh, yeah?"

"Where did you find it?!" Quinn almost gave up, having scavenged the whole gas station for this thing!

"Under the cashier counter? At the bottom there's a whole toolbox."

Quinn beams. She's so relieved she could kiss Rachel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again :)  
> Don't worry, this story isn't getting abandoned anytime soon. Also I had to go back (ha ha?) and edit a part of chapter 2, because... well, because of science


	4. Where Is Everybody

It's almost noon when they finally depart from the gas station. Things take longer than Quinn anticipated when she practically has to teach Rachel anew how to pack, fold and wrap up their camp and equipment. Rachel keeps nodding solemnly, but Quinn catches how her eyes glaze over when they reach the topic of weight distribution in a car's trunk. 

She wishes she would have more time to explain entirely all of the aspects of survival to Rachel in the comfortable solitude and seclusion that a location such as the gas station provides. But they cannot stay there. They cannot afford the luxury of getting holed up in one place. For one thing - they're running dangerously low on food (Quinn already skipped out on her breakfast ration in Rachel's favor; she hopes Rachel didn't notice). So it's either heading out scavenging or depleting their resources and starving. Maybe they can return later if they somehow find enough food to last them a few days. There's no rush. They're headed nowhere… Rachel doesn't know that. Yet.

But even so they still need to switch cars. The spare will last only maybe fifty miles or so, then that tire will break down as well. That's why Quinn's been looking over the map so thoroughly. The nearby towns should be big enough to give them a chance to… 'acquire' a vehicle, but not populous enough to provide much potential danger.

When Rachel asks why, Quinn gives her a pointed stare. The bigger the settlement, the higher its population.

"The more zombies lurking around."

Rachel's eyes widen with comprehension.

\---

They've been driving around for nearly two hours now. To Rachel it feels way longer, but the clock on the dashboard tells her so. At least she gets to ride shotgun. There was just something about Quinn glancing back at her yesterday while driving that just did not sit well with Rachel.

Neither of the villages they've passed so far has been to Quinn's liking. They would always stop thirty or so yards before the first houses and the blonde would stare long and hard at the area in front of her, sizing up the settlement, eyes darting across the horizon. Studying her profile, Rachel could only guess what she was seeing, what Quinn was looking for. Signs of life? Unlife? Tire Shops? All of the above? Still, each time Quinn would frown, scoff or sigh and turn the car around.

Honestly, to Rachel all of the towns look the same. Same kind of empty. But somehow they also felt like the same kind normal. At least the houses she saw. From the outside none of them looked damaged in any way, the streets looked clean, the sun was shining; it all reminded Rachel of those tiny model-train dioramas. As if everybody suddenly left, but everything still looked perfectly 'lived-in'.

"Oh no, they are there alright," Quinn reacts to Rachel. She must've been voicing her impression out loud. "They just tend to migrate toward the Main Street."

Rachel quirks an eyebrow.

Quinn's eyes never leave the road as she continues: "The Main Street has shops, shops have alarms? Noise, remember? In a small town it carries easily. You trip one alarm and within minutes you have all that's left of the town snapping at your heels. Makes scavenging there,” she pauses, “Difficult.”

Rachel frowns and nods.

An eerie realization dawns on her. From the outside all of the houses seemed the same kind of normal. But all of the people that used to live inside were now dead. Or undead. When her mind proceeds to try to wrap itself around the sheer number of casualties, she feels the rising surge of panic. All of them are dead. Her breathing increases. Quinn was right, so she heeds the blonde's advice and tries to suppress those thoughts. Stubs them out, really.

\---

Quinn is growing impatient.

She glances at the dashboard clock. Time is really against her. On days like these she really hates playing the 'Calculation Game'. Like calculating how much time they have to reach a new secure location, how much time they'll approximately need to set up camp, how much time will it leave them for scavenging before darkness falls… The tally of that doesn't look so good. She's pressed to make a decision.

But she also needs to make a safe decision and it's not her fault that none of the villages they've passed so far could live up to that criteria. Quinn wishes she had a pair of binoculars to get a more thorough look instead of squinting at the horizon from behind the steering wheel. But at least she's able to spot the deal breakers from the distance. Smoke that has no reason to rise from anywhere in the village unless it's been lit recently - a dealbreaker. Signs on rooftops, because you can never tell whether the people responsible for that sign are friend, foe or dead; and they're not looking for either - a dealbreaker. Even churches are dealbreakers - you can never tell which of them will chime the hour or even just particular hours, rousing the entire zombie population to start shambling towards the source of the noise. And you don't want to be anywhere near an easily distracted hoard on the move.

But she can never hope to find an ideal location. She's aware of that much. So this next one better deliver.

From afar it looks… quaint. No smoke, no churches, no discernible town center, no signs of life or otherwise. Nothing higher than a two-story house, but a whole lot of trees kind of obstructing the view. Then again, that is not a dealbreaker, is it? It's not like zombies can --she's overthinking it. On the upside most of the houses they carefully cruise by all have garages. There's bound to be a car still in working condition around there somewhere.

A small voice inside her head starts telling her how this is all too convenient, too deserted, too suspect. So far they've been terribly lucky, so now something's bound to go terribly wrong. She should just drive away and find something slightly more flawed. Yeah, also the sleep deprivation is making her paranoid.

Quinn rubs at her eyes with the fingers of her right hand, squeezing at the bridge of her nose. When her gaze returns to the street, she spots something incredible.

"This is perfect." Quinn says, reverently.

"What is?" Rachel pipes up, trying to follow the blonde's line of sight.

Then Rachel sees it too. Not far from them, down the road, coming into view from behind an otherwise-innocuous modern two-story family house, is an old, but healthy, large patulous tree. And there, some ten feet above ground, with a string ladder hanging from an opening in its floor…

"A tree house," Rachel breathes out and as the car makes a turn towards it her mind connects the dots. "You want us to stay in a tree house?"

Quinn frowns and quirks an eyebrow. "Would m'lady prefer a pillow fort?" she challenges.

The only child in Rachel entertains the idea for a split second. "N-no. But there _are_ houses all around."

"Houses, which could be locked," Quinn promptly backfires, "Houses, which could have alarms as well… I don't know about you Rachel, but that tree house looks pretty enticing to me."

Rachel mulls it over and she has to concede that Quinn does have a point. Just like their previous choice of campsite, it's high enough above ground level. Four walls and a roof are also an improvement since last night. The whole structure is nothing fancy, but that's what makes it all the more endearing. It was obviously built by a parent for their children, there is no elaborate architecture involved. Even the planks are mismatched in color, possibly a mixture of found wood and store-bought ones. And as she exits the car she even notices that the windows are framed in lively pastel hues of red, blue or green. Rachel likes that.

\---

As there aren't many hours of daylight left, they just haul the mere essentials up into the tree house. They can finish setting up during sunset, but for now Quinn really needs to make use of the time to do some scavenging. Part of her wants to go alone, yet she is oddly relieved when Rachel declares she's coming with her. Quinn still doesn't trust this place; expects to spot a horde around every corner. At least having Rachel there with her will hopefully keep her paranoia at bay. Besides, the brunette has already somewhat proven herself capable of stealth back at the gas station. Also, two people can always carry more.

So with two backpacks, a tire iron and a baseball bat ready, they head out.

Picking out the right place to scavenge is a whole different science of its own. The houses in their immediate vicinity are out of the question. They don't want to trigger anything near their shelter, no matter how slight the chances. However, they cannot choose something too remote either - in case they would need to make a run for it, the distance combined with a full backpack might prove a fatal combination. No wealthy-looking houses either. The richer the former owners, the more elaborate the burglar alarm. And even with the power having been out for months some home security systems still run on backup batteries.

On the fifth try they find a viable house to break into.

They approach it from the back porch and it takes Quinn a few minutes of peering inside through the glass door, before she nods to herself. She then drops to her knees.

Rachel's instantly worried and wants to ask if Quinn's alright, yet then catches a glimpse of two long, thin, pieces of metallic somethings sliding into the lock.

Rachel really shouldn't be appalled at how quickly the back door clicks open, but when Quinn strides inside that feeling is swiftly replaced with dread at the sound of ominous beeping, warning them that the alarm's gonna go off soon.

Quinn remains unfazed as she goes up to a metallic box on the wall in the hallway, pops it open with her knife and yanks the cables inside. Silence falls.

Rachel remains rooted to her spot outside, trying to calm her racing heart.

Quinn notices Rachel watching her and rolls her eyes.

"Puck," she simply states.

Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, Rachel realizes.

Tentatively, she crosses the threshold, as if expecting the alarm to start blaring again. It never does, but Rachel still can't get rid of the lingering feeling of guilt from trespassing. Or, technically, breaking and entering.

Quinn's head pops from around the corner.

"In here," she beckons and Rachel follows.

She finds herself entering the kitchen, just as Quinn is pulling down the blinds on the windows. Rachel observes as she then moves to the fridge, opens it, peers briefly inside and closes it, thoroughly waving at the air in front of her face. Rachel catches a whiff of the smell that probably fills up its entire inside and her face contorts on its own accord.

Quinn shoots her a sheepish grin. "We're not that desperate."

Rachel doesn't respond, because if there's one thing she'll be happy to forget, it's how six months worth of decomposing groceries smell like. Quinn tilts her head, almost amused.

"Okay, here's what I need you to do while I go take a look around," and before Rachel can object to leaving Quinn out of her sight--"It's faster and _safer_ this way."

"I need you to go through this place. I mean every cabinet, cupboard, shelf, rack, every storage space. Look for anything edible - instant noodles, dried food, canned food, preserves, anything, really." Quinn then frowns, purses her lips. "Well, maybe except for asparagus," she adds.

"Why?" Rachel asks, puzzled.

"Because fuck asparagus." And it's Rachel's turn to roll her eyes.

Undeterred, Quinn continues. "We'll also need salt…maybe some basic spices, too…" she trails off, walking over to the counter, squatting down and opening a few cabinets. Carefully, she extricates a small pan and a medium-sized pot. "Pack these too, please."

Quinn then moves to the kitchen table, taking off her backpack. "Here, you can use mine, it's bigger."

Solemn hazel eyes meet brown and hold them firmly. "Just remember, whatever you do, _don't_ raise your voice, _don't_ scream and keep the overall noise to a minimum. Work fast, but close things slowly, no slamming."

Rachel nods, slowly, then gulps. "What if," she begins hesitantly.

Quinn catches on. "Well, this place looks to be deserted. And they cannot surprise us from upstairs without tumbling on their way down. But just in case? I'd recommend you find the longest, sturdiest knife in here and hold onto it."

The blonde's hand makes a stabbing gesture. "It's through the eye socket, then twist," she demonstrates.

"But if there's more than one," she levels Rachel with another serious stare, "get out of here as fast as you can."

She grows anxious at the prospect of having to run away on her own. And especially at the prospect of leaving Quinn behind. It causes her to gnaw at her bottom lip.

Sensing her distress, the blonde supplies "We'd meet back at the tree house," but Rachel doesn't exactly feel convinced.

Something shimmers briefly in Quinn's eyes, but she just purses her lips and averts her gaze.

"I'll go check out the rest of the house," she mumbles as she makes her way to exit the kitchen. " Meet you here in twenny?"

"Yeah," Rachel exhales, reigning in her courage.

Passing by her, Quinn stops and after slight hesitation, gently touches her shoulder.

"You'll be fine," she reassures Rachel.

A little stiltedly, the brunette nods.

\---

The clock above the kitchen table tells her it's been seventeen minutes since Quinn left. Rachel hates to be that person, to time her companion's absence on the minute. But the fact that she's almost done scavenging this place within the time limit is both a good thing and, to an extent, a bad thing. Despite all established stereotypes about the food-hoarding lifestyle, she only found a few canned foods, instant noodles, rice and some herbal tea. It's not much, but it will have to do. She packs two forks and two spoons for good measure.

With time to spare, Rachel gives into her curiosity and wanders off into the hallway. She doesn't want to call out to Quinn to determine her whereabouts; she did promise to stay quiet. And it's not like Quinn won't find her here, this house is not that spacious.

A large mirror on the wall captures her attention. Sure, there is a mirror in the visor in the car, however with Quinn right next to her it just felt too weird to _inspect_ herself. Being presented the opportunity now, Rachel cannot help herself. She needs to look. To really take a look at this survived-for-six-months-version of herself.

She isn't sure what she expected. Were a stranger staring from her reflection back at her, at least she would have validation that this is all just some nightmare product of her deranged mind and not, in fact, real. But it's her alright. The absence of makeup makes her look younger, yet at the same time more… worn out? Still everything else seems the same. Same lips, same nose, same eyes, even though the bags under them could give Quinn's a run for their money. Her hair has also seen better days. Definitely less mussed, curly and tangled days. As washing it probably won't be an option anytime soon, Rachel considers just chopping it off. Entertaining the idea, she gathers her hair and pulls it back to see how--

"Like what you see?"

Rachel jerks a little, shooting an unamused little glare in the blonde's direction. "Very funny, Quinn."

Quinn just smiles. "C'mon, I found us a replacement ride," and when she turns on her heel Rachel has no other choice, but to follow.

"The battery might be dead, but seeing as it is the same manufacturer, we might be able to just replace it with ours. Other than that it looks to be in working condition, but there's no telling until I actually start the engine," Quinn explains as she leads them to what Rachel assumes is the garage."The back is spacious enough for us to sleep in if we figure out how to fold the seats. Not to mention that we can fit in all our gear and still have room to spare."

Quinn twists the handle and steps to the side of the doorway, leaving Rachel to take in the view.

A sudden wave of nausea swells inside her and Rachel feels like she's drowning on air as recognition crashes over her.

It can't be. But it is. It was blue and this one's silver. But it still is. The same model of the same car.

The force with which her stomach drops makes her knees buckle.

Because now she remembers where she last saw Artie's car.

_\---flashback---_

This is nice. And to think she was apprehensive about this whole event. Well, that might also have something to do with the second glass of wine Rachel's currently nursing. Which tastes nice. And the pleasant buzz is nice. And she can feel herself smiling wider. Because the people around her are nice. And Rachel feels nice being here with them.

Yes, Rachel is very pleased with the way this high-school reunion is turning out so far. Granted, it did entail a little verbal altercation with Santana, but Rachel Berry is anything but a quitter. So now, luckily for all of them, instead of the ever redundant _Breadsticks_ they are comfortably seated in a nice little diner just outside of Lima. Rachel noticed them for the first time not even two days ago on her drive from the airport and she was immediately hooked on the promise of ' _New! Vegan meals!_ ' the big visible sign outside of the establishment proudly advertizes. And even better - they have tables big enough to seat all of them at the same one.

Well, all ten of them that could make it. Then again, she understands the work and career-related circumstances that are responsible for the absences of the three remaining members of their former team. Even though there's one absence that Rachel can't quite-- dwell on. And she certainly cannot let it weight down on her evening. Her _nice_ evening. He wouldn't have wanted that for her.

She nestles herself more comfortably in her seat, tucked between Tina and Sam. She probably nudged the blond while doing so, but he just gives her a broad questioning smile as to check if everything's alright and she can't help but return it, which is all the assurance he needs, before returning to his animated discussion with Puck about fantasy football. Or something. His elbows both rest upon the table, but even through the two moving biceps Rachel can make out parts of Artie's features objecting and mocking his fictional choices. Rachel turns her head to the other side and catches the end of Tina telling Matt and Mike a story from college. They are actually listening with rapt attention and Rachel is suddenly overcome with the urge to hug Tina. She likes this side of Tina, this confident, loud Tina. Needing to do something with her hands, Rachel reaches for the wine glass again and takes a lengthy sip instead. On the other end of the table Santana is counting down how many people need refills of their drinks while Brittany is pretty content with… apparently dancing the can-can with her index fingers to the music playing in the diner. Puck reaches across to grab her glass to use as a prop in his napkin-and-toothpick football field and when he sits back again, Rachel realizes that Quinn seems to have been looking in her direction. For a while? As if taken by surprise when Rachel's eyes meet hers, her eyebrows nudge higher almost imperceptibly and her gaze quickly darts away. It's done so inconspicuously and nobody seems to have picked up on it that Rachel is almost not sure if it actually happened or whether the wine just made her make it up.

It's strange how they are all older, but not much, how they all seem more mature, yet still on the cusp of adulthood. Because even though they are all grown up and out of college now, something inside Rachel's mind still sees them as if they were eighteen only yesterday. Rachel suspects they will probably never stop seeming that way to her. Forever the kids that sat in classes together, squabbled together, learned life lessons together, survived high school together. (Though with every passing year, Rachel is sure there are far more horrifying things to survive through than high-school.) Forever the kids that can dance and sing together.

Like the little number they are performing right now in Artie's car on their ride back. With Sam whistling and tapping out a rhythm on the dashboard with his hands, Artie belting out the lead vocals and her and Tina as backup while slaying some improvised choreography in perfect sync from the backseat.

The others are driving in two more cars behind them and honestly they are totally missing out. Seriously, this is the most fun she's had in a long while. And she starts telling Artie so, but as he turns his head to the side to hear her better over the music a figure stumbles onto the road in front of the moving vehicle. Instead of time slowing down, in that moment everything seems to speed up. Rachel's scream of "Watch out!" has the desired reaction of Artie pressing down on the breaks, but the exclamation is still cut short by a body smacking against the windshield and plummeting down below their line of sight.

The screeching of tires behind them means the others came to a halt safely. For a few seconds everything falls silent and Rachel needs to remind herself to breathe as she stares wide-eyed at the spider web of cracks dented inwards. Sam is the first one to snap out of it and he rushes out of the car, closely followed by Tina and Artie. After a moment even Rachel shakily joins them outside. As dazed as she feels she can't just stay inside. Her conscience forces her to acknowledge the situation. After all, she's the one who caused it. Artie's attention had been compromised because of her. The person lying motionless on the ground is there because of her. Everyone will remember this as the least fun night because of her.

Now Rachel has to remind herself not to breathe too much.

She watches her three friends bend over and inspect the injured person. She cannot see much, only hears fragments of their exchange like "So much blood", and "Did he get that from the blow?"

How can she make this right? She has to!

Doors slam behind her and there's more shouting of "What happened?", "Is anyone hurt? Should we call an ambulance?"

Her hand digs into her purse and fumbles for the phone. She's not sure she can place the call in her current state, but she has to try. Rachel feels like she's going to be sick.

Sam turns around and calls out to the rest of their group, clarifying what happened. He doesn't mention Rachel's part in it and that's oddly reassuring. The beep of her call getting cancelled however isn't. She tries again. No success. Rachel pulls the phone from her ear to look at it and frowns. Why doesn't she have any signal?

Tina voices the same question turning back to the others, but several people confirm the same. This is ridiculous? They are just on the outskirts of Lima!

Artie suggests that there's bound to be a landline phone in one of the nearby houses. To everybody's astonishment his loud voice seems to have roused the injured person. Everyone hears the gory gurgle and the apparent strain to breathe. Artie and Tina immediately start to placate and apologize to the man, assuring him that help is on the way and not to move.

Rachel wants to let out a sigh of relief. It's ok, everything's going to be ok, she tries to calm herself down. The man is not dead, they didn't kill him.

But if the universe has taught Rachel anything, it's that bad events rarely come alone.

The strained breathing turns all of a sudden into an angry growl. This time Artie cannot react fast enough before the man's hands curl around the hems of his jacket and he yanks him down. The scream that follows makes everybody freeze in horror as they see the stranger repeatedly biting down on their friend's neck. The blood streaks and gushes out. There's so much blood. Tina kicks and punches at the assailant, yet that has little to no effect. She screams and Sam screams and there's undoubtedly more screaming going on behind Rachel, but Rachel doesn't hear any of it. Just the rising rumble of horror in her ears.

It's growing louder and louder. She then realizes that it's coming from above. It becomes a roar that whizzes past. Everybody looks up into the darkness in confusion. They all hear it. Even Artie's murderer hears it. His head briefly snaps up and he shrieks with inhuman intensity. This Rachel hears. Just as she hears similar shrieks echo from several places down the road.

Lights flash on the horizon illuminating the sky and the streets beneath with figures shambling in their direction. The dull thumping noise of explosives reaches them. This isn't happening. This isn't happening, Rachel repeats in her head over and over, but it just seems to beckon the clouds of fire closer and closer.

This time it's Puck that snaps them out of their stupor.

It's as if his military training kicks in, because his first words are "Fall back! Fall back!", flailing his hands frantically and he rushes towards Rachel while Sam grabs Tina.

No one argues his orders and they scramble back into the cars, because in that moment nobody wants to wait for the cannibalistic mob or the incoming bombings to reach them first. She and Tina are practically hurled into the back of Santana's car and Rachel hears Quinn gasp, when her shoulder hits the blonde square in the ribs. She wants to apologize profusely, however, before she gets the chance to, Quinn angrily kicks across at the driver's seat.

"C'mon! Drive! _Drive_ , Santana!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you goes out to everyone who took the time to leave a kudos or a comment. Every little encouragement counts. :)  
> Another big thanks goes out to Jess, Chels and Pouty, for the tree house discussion we had. <3


	5. Chapter 5

 

She gets to hold her. She gets to embrace her and keep her close. Yet she is not hers. She only gets to keep quiet. She gets to listen to Rachel sobbing uncontrollably as the memory passes. She gets to rush to her side, she gets to touch her lips as she tries to mute the brunette's anguished gasps with her palm, she gets to murmur soothing sounds as Rachel's knees buckle with the weight of _knowing_ and they both slide to the floor.

But she doesn't get to do a single thing more than that.

She cannot cross that boundary. And that kills her. In a world where every ounce of control is a victory Quinn is powerless to do anything about the pain her-- that _Rachel_ has to go through _again_.

\---

She dreams of a meadow doused in sunlight.

Of chestnut hair trickling through her fingertips like liquid silk.

Of the stems of wild flowers swaying in the breeze.

Of the smell of a nearby forest, a hearty fragrance of moist earth and wood.

Of the warmth radiating from the proximity of two bodies.

She dreams of a steady heartbeat.

And of content sighs and hums.

But.

The sighs grow into wheezes, hums into groans.

Her sundrenched meadow dims and hardens into wooden planks beneath her and against her back. The forest-smell is the early morning dew, dampening the tree house. It's hard to wake up, even harder to force her eyelids from falling back shut.

There's that groaning again.

No, five more minutes. They're safe up here, she can knock them back down if need be.

Well, this gurgle definitely seems closer than that previous one.

For fuck's sake. Alright. Quinn inhales deeply through her nose. She stirs, now aware of the increasingly uncomfortable numbness in her buttocks from having slept in one position. Also of the weight against her shoulder. Rachel's weight.

Quinn's eyes open slowly to look at the small brunette tucked into her side. She's breathing steadily, lips slightly parted, one hand clutching at the hem of Quinn's coat. Quinn's gaze softens. Good, she's still asleep.

She deserves the extra rest after last night. Quinn is not sure how many memories has Rachel recovered. But between the anguished sobs and the few gasped words, from what Quinn could piece together, all of them were linked to that first night. Quinn only saw, yet cannot imagine how it must've felt to relive again all the emotions the events of that night put them through. In the end all she could do was be there for Rachel. Just like she witnessed it being done before - whenever things became too overwhelming for one of the former glee club members, someone would stay at their side, comforting, verbally or with silence. Strange, she mostly remembers Sam doing the counseling. And Rachel. Huh.

Reluctantly, she extricates herself from Rachel's dormant half-embrace and leans her towards the other side where her head rests against the wall. Rachel wiggles a little and then settles into the corner of the tree house. Quinn just hovers for a few seconds, then when it's clear she's not waking up, she silently moves to the window facing front. Stealthily she peers outside. Nothing.

The wheezing comes from right under her.

Quinn freezes. Flattening herself against the floor she crawls towards the makeshift lid they put over the opening that serves as both the entrance and exit. She lifts it cautiously. Through the small crack her eyes flit over the ground, taking quick stock of the situation underneath.

_Oh fuck._

There are at least five or six of them shuffling around the tree below. Thankfully, they haven’t noticed her.

This is bad. This is really bad. With them down there, they're stuck up here. And it's not like they can wait it out either. Once those deadheads are drawn to a place they stay put until the next big distraction. That could take days, weeks even. No scavenging means no food or water and one can only stay super quiet for so long. If discovered a hungry howl could draw in even more of them. Good luck waiting out an angry mob. And so much for choosing a shelter with just one escape route, stupid.

She wants to hit something, badly, but that would just give away their presence. Of which the walkers seem to be oddly unaware. So she slumps back with an exasperate sigh. Now what?

Her gaze roams all over the tiny space, looking for a hint, for an epiphany on how to solve this newest predicament. Her gaze lands on Rachel's. Great. Now she has even less time to figure out a course of action.

Rachel opens her mouth, but Quinn quickly interrupts by pressing a finger to her lips, giving Rachel a solemn look. The brunette nods, but when there's another moan from beneath the tree house, her eyes nervously dart to the lid on the floor.

"There's six of them," Quinn whispers. "They don't seem to know we're up here," she explains.

Ever the straightforward one, likewise in a whisper, Rachel asks the obvious: "How do we get out of here?"

Think, Fabray. No pressure. Just Rachel, staring at her intently, the rising panic so evident on her features. Yet there is no way she's going to admit not having a solution. Quinn is too stubborn for that. Too bad Rachel has always had that annoying little talent of being able to read her bluff.

So, naturally, Quinn avoids her stare by peering outside the little tree house window, pretending to be calculating her plan, but honestly she's just wishing for an epiphany.

It doesn't look good. The tree is just too far away from anything else. Too far away from a house they could climb onto, too far away from other trees, too far away from their car. If only she could somehow get to it, she could drive around the block and maybe lure them away, then come back for Rachel (hopefully the tire won't give up on her yet). But she cannot climb down the opening in the floor and she cannot jump to it.

…or can she?

Quinn's eyes widen. As silently as her curbed excitement allows, she scrambles to her left, over Rachel's outstretched legs and inquisitive brow, to the side window.

It is there.

A sturdy branch growing confidently to the side. She can even see a distinct stripe circling it in the half - possibly from the rope where the tire swing was hung. Which is as good of a guarantee as any that it will hold her.

Her plan is ridiculous, but it just might work. It is also totally suicidal, which is exactly why she can't tell Rachel any particulars. Despite the arguments that the opinionated brunette might bring up, they don't exactly have a choice right now. It's either this or be sitting ducks.

'No heroics.' That's the rule. She's not exactly breaking it, she rationalizes. Gymnastics is part of cheerleading after all. She's got this. This is no different than jumping from the top of a human pyramid. She's done worse.

Right. Enough pep talk. Her hands tighten around the window frame.

"Whatever you do, don't scream," Quinn throws over her shoulder and before Rachel can latch onto her train of thought, she's climbing through the window.

She hears Rachel gasp behind her, but she forbids herself to look back. Partly, because she's afraid she'll lose her balance, partly because she's afraid she'll lose her nerve.

The walkers beneath start taking notice of the figure slowly crawling forward above them.

When Quinn's about halfway along the branch, she stops. She desperately wants to look at Rachel. To reassure her or to see her one last time if something--no. Swiftness will be of essence for this next part. She cannot afford to stall until the Walkers shamble right under her position. Quinn takes a deep breath--

\--and slips off of the branch, holding onto it like one would onto a high bar. She swings back once to give herself momentum and as she's swinging forward, she lets go.

Propelled a good seven feet, Quinn lands into a roll from which she springs up into a mad dash for the car. Now, she doesn't need to look to know, by the sounds and growls, that she's being chased after. Using the car to her advantage, she vaults over the hood, placing a temporary obstacle between her and her pursuers and giving her enough time to yank the door open and close it behind her.

Despite the aggressive thumping and patting, her eyes stay focused on inserting the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life and Quinn shifts into reverse. When there's enough distance between her and the incoming zeds, she steps down on the gas and prays to whichever Deity's listening that the spare tire will hold.

Just as the spoiler connects with the first bodies, Quinn hits the break, flinging three of the reanimated corpses backwards and toppling two more in the process. Again, she shifts into a reverse, but only for a few feet, before the car lunges forward driving over the fallen walkers. Quinn hears a gory splattering sound, but it only makes her focus more on her breathing and the systematic shifting of gears. Reverse-forward-reverse-forward-reverse-forward. With a morbid sort of deliberation she turns the wheel, each time driving across the undead at a slightly different angle.

Finally, Quinn stops and slumps forward, resting her forehead against the wheel. But an angry snarl to her left makes it obvious that she's not quite done yet. She looks up and spots a single zombie, tirelessly clawing at the trunk of the tree trying to reach up into their shelter.

Quinn curses under her breath. She doesn't have anything at hand to dispatch him with. Anything except for the car. And when she tries to align the vehicle with her target, the steering clearly tells her that the spare tire is finally history. Driving straight at the zom should prove real interesting.

As the zombie's nails dig into the bark, his attention is diverted by the roar of an engine getting revved up. It slowly turns around, but there is no self-preservation instinct that would urge him to evade the incoming vehicle. His arms just start reaching out for a new prey.

Quinn feels the seatbelt dig into her sternum when she hits the tree. It's nowhere near painful, as the speed of the impact was nowhere near fast. The airbag didn’t even go off. The same, however, cannot be said for the car's front. The hood is bent in several places like a harmonica, there is faint steam accompanied by sizzling coming from the side and judging by the car's overall incline, the wheel's hub and suspension highly likely suffered some irreparable damage. Still, she accomplished her mission and the zombie is now flailing angrily, squashed and trapped against the tree.

Who needs coffee with mornings like these?

\---

Rachel could _really_ go for some coffee right now. She is a morning person, she really is, but as mornings go - well, especially recent ones - a warm beverage would really improve her abilities to deal with the post-apocalypse right now. Her face feels all puffy and her eyes ache dully from the strain of yesterday’s crying. It felt like she wouldn't ever be able to stop. And afterwards, before exhaustion submerged her into a dreamless sleep, it just felt like she depleted all her emotions and won't ever be able to feel anything else than just an apathetic sort of grief.

It certainly didn't help that when Rachel woke up, she became quickly aware of the tension that filled up the quaint little tree house. Her pulse quickened when Quinn had explained to her the reason behind the noises coming from below. But she got truly paralyzed with dread when the blonde climbed out onto the branch. Rachel just watched the suicide mission unfold and horror was quickly replaced with anger, because all she could do was watch. And that was Quinn's decision. She made sure Rachel had no say in it. In a paradox sort of way Quinn also _made_ Rachel watch. But when Quinn put the car into reverse the first time, Rachel finally decided for herself to avert her eyes from the carnage. Quinn was safe. And despite the whole successfully-NOT-getting-herself-killed part Rachel was dead set on giving Quinn a thorough chewing out.

So when she discovered one more walker, as she went for the flap covering the hole in the floor, it's no wonder that Rachel gasped audibly. Unfortunately, it alerted him to her whereabouts. Rachel scrambled towards the corner where the rest of their equipment lay, but before she could reach any weapon, the whole tree house shook violently.

Now, sprawled on her back from where the impact smacked her headfirst against the wall and then on the floor, Rachel longingly thinks about coffee. And maybe an Advil.

Though judging by the noises from beneath, things are not over yet. Slowly Rachel rolls onto her side and carefully she chances a glance down. The hissing of the totaled car and the growling of the zombie pawing angrily at the hood is joined by the front door opening and closing shut. Soon enough, there's Quinn's unharmed voice, calling up to her not too loudly:

"Rachel?"

For a split second, Rachel wants to indignantly stay silent, just to make the blonde worry and give her a taste of her own medicine. But then her mind runs amok with all the possibilities of how things could take a turn for worse, so when by the third try the blonde starts to sound a little bit frantic, Rachel pops her head out of the window in the front.

Quinn's shoulders imperceptibly sag with relief.

Rachel expects to be asked if she's ok, whether she got hurt when Quinn rammed a CAR into the tree, or even that Quinn's ok and in one piece. Anything but "Toss me the baseball bat, please?"

Rachel blinks. Infuriated, as she is at the blonde's lack of courtesy, she snatches up the bat and chucks it at her. To Rachel's awe, it misses Quinn by just a little, mainly because she ducks in time. Since when had her aim improved that much?

\---

"Ooookayyy…?" Quinn mutters as she picks up the bat. She expected to be in the doghouse for her pseudo-heroic antics, but she didn't expect it to be bad to the point of having things hurled at her head. At least the Rachel-she-remembered wouldn't have. And despite the few hours of sleep she managed to get, she's nowhere near well rested. Especially when it comes to handling a proper Rachel Berry fit. Great, things are off to a _swell_ start today.

Bat gripped tightly and jaw set, she makes short work of the trapped walker.

Climbing then up into the tree house, Quinn finds the brunette hunched and massaging her temples.

"Are you alright?" she frowns and the moment those words leave her lips, she knows it's the wrong thing to say.

"No, Quinn," Rachel snaps, not even bothering to look at her, "I _hit_ my head when _you_ hit the tree."

Well now Quinn just feels like a jerk. _Oh cause an amnesiac some more head trauma, why don't you?_ Part of her wants to rush over and check for any further injuries and part wants to lash out right back at her, because contrary to this 'side effect' the whole point of her escapade was to have _less_ harm come to them and so at least she deserves that one measly 'thank you' and, and…As per habit, restraint wins once again.

"Look," Quinn scoffs, "I'm sorry. It's not like I--"

"Do we have any Advil?" Rachel interrupts. She's perfectly willing, but unfortunately not really in a state to argue about this topic any further right now.

Quinn licks her lips. "No, we don't have any Advil, Rachel," she answers and calmly sets about gathering up their gear and belongings.

Rachel recognizes the measured tone in Quinn's voice. It's been years (well, technically considering her lack of recollection possibly less than that) since she last heard it, but the message it sends is clear - this conversation's over.

\---

As they cannot lug everything around, they stash most of their equipment in the trunk of the crashed car. Temporarily. They'll pick it up once they retrieve the one they found yesterday. Quinn is not too thrilled at the prospect of utilizing something that has been triggering to Rachel just a few hours ago, but it's not like they have much of a choice. It's there, it seems to be working, it's spacious. Which also means it will hold whatever extra scavenged supplies they can stock up on while still in town. At least that's what she tells Rachel, as they go scouting out houses. In reality, she wants to find Rachel some Advil or some other trinket to make it up to her. Bad conscience aside, Quinn is slowly realizing that this Rachel is different from the Rachel she is used to and that also means she must change the way she treats her. This isn't the 'keep calm and carry on' person she's witnessed Rachel turn into over the course of the last months. This is very much Rachel 'from before'. The Rachel that came to the reunion dinner party. This isn't the girl that outran a horde or rammed a screwdriver in a zombie's eye socket.

They choose to head out in the opposite direction than they did yesterday, as this way they stand a better and _faster_ chance of spotting something suitable. Quinn makes it a point not to veer too much from the outskirts towards the center of the town. The episode from this morning is enough of an encounter for the whole day, thank you very much.

They do have time to spare, after all it's still before noon, but she'd rather spend it someplace inside than being _picky_. But the houses are starting to look identical to her and she's starting to lose track of how far they've walked. Same gabled roofs, same horizontal wooden facades, same painted shutters on the sides of _same_ Georgian windows. And everything framed in white. All traditional prefab homes. Just like in Lima. Just like anyplace else. Rather than nostalgia it just stirs up disdain in her. It makes Quinn feel like she's cursed to be stuck in the 'small town' scene for the rest of her life. It makes her impatient.

Quinn then sees a house that's different than the others. Somehow more modern, yet still nothing too gaudy. Large simple windows with fabric blinds on the inside, a solid brown door as the entrance, a chimney hugging the side of the first floor. Also, two garage doors.

Quinn purses her lips. Is it really worth the risk?

Well the two garages suggest the household had more than one car at their disposal, so chances are one of them might have been left behind. Secondly a more modern built can also be linked to a more modern lifestyle, possibly more modern eating habits as well. Something vegan-friendly for Rachel would mean less drama for Quinn. Lastly, the wealthier the owners, the higher the chance of some good old prescription medication. Quinn chuckles cynically to herself. A Xanax would be a godsend.

As before, they approach the house from the back. There are several flower pots next to the door, the contents of which wilted long ago. As Quinn works on the lock, Rachel wonders how they looked in bloom and then she realizes how many flowers she won't get to see in bloom ever again. And how she won't ever receive any flowers again. A frown creases her brow.

She's been silent most of the morning. Not that she's giving Quinn the silent treatment (not that it would have any effect), but rather because her lingering headache makes any aural experience unpleasant. The sunlight isn't helping either. At least her leg doesn't hurt much anymore.

The telltale click of the lock pulls Rachel out of her thoughts. As expected, the warning beeps follow and Quinn rushes inside, knife in hand, seeking out the fuse box. When ten seconds turn into fifteen, twenty, Rachel starts wringing her hands, nervously. These things are supposed to give you just thirty seconds, right? Right on queue the alarm starts blaring away. It drives angry needles into Rachel's already aching head. And Quinn is nowhere to be seen. She tries to massage the pain away through her temples. No such luck. Through the siren, she doesn't even notice Quinn as she dashes out of the house, until a hand curls around her bicep.

"Come on, we need to go," is being said close to Rachel's ear.

"What?" She's confused, not sure if she heard right over the alarm.

"We need to go!" Quinn reiterates, loudly. "I couldn't find the control box! It's hidden! I can't disable the alarm! This place will be crawling with zeds in minutes!"To stress her point, she cranes her neck, anxiously looking to all directions.

Rachel doesn't need to be told twice. It takes one look between them and Quinn starts running. Rachel follows.

Finding a place to hide in on such short notice proves to be tricky. The lawns surrounding the lots are large with no fences. Plenty of open space to be spotted in. There are no tool sheds and the trees have branches that are too high. There are only other nearby houses. When the house to the left reveals three zombies stumbling out over each other and tumbling down through the backdoor screen, Quinn is forced to abruptly change the direction they are running in. Rachel almost loses her footing as she tries to keep up. The strain causes her knee to flare up painfully. She hisses, but doesn't relent. Quinn is running towards the house on the lot behind the ill-fated one. Just as she's about to vanish past the side of the house, she jumps back. Her arm flies out and catches Rachel's waist, pulling her to the wall. Before Rachel can grasp what has just happened a zombie runs at full speed mere five feet from them straight at the screeching house. Quinn glances around the corner, then up to the heavens. Rachel doesn't need to be good at lip reading to decipher the repeated profanity.

Looking around more frantically now, the blonde tries to make use of their surroundings. It occurs to her then that the house the three zombies came from, now stands with the door wide open. Also there is no alarm roaring. She tugs at Rachel's jacket and points towards it. Rachel bites her lip, but then nods.

Part-running, part-ducking, they finally reach the house. Baseball bat out and at the ready, Quinn leads them inside, up the stairs and to the last room, which she twists the lock on just as soon as she makes sure they are the only ones there. Then she slumps down on the floor and with her back against the door she lets out a heavy sight of relief.

Rachel watches her chest rise and fall and wills her own breathing to calm down. Despite the windows being all closed, the alarm can still be heard. But at least they're not there, with an entire horde of zombies headed towards the noise. They are safe.

"And now what?" she asks.

"Now?" Quinn scoffs, "Now we wait."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Wether you'll spend them reading, gaming, movie/series watching or which ever activity you find relaxing, I wish you a highly enjoyable and peaceful time! :) See you in the new year!


	6. Chapter 6

 

"There's no fucking way we're waiting here!" Santana exclaims.

They're stuck on the highway, on the far back end of a car queue, both vehicles side by side with a good sixteen cars ahead of them. Up front, the road is blocked by a massive military checkpoint, complete with concrete panels, barbed wire and armed soldiers guarding a narrow gate. It's been at least half an hour since they've seen the last car be let past the gate.

"Well do you have any better ideas?" Puck retorts, "This is the only open road to Dayton," he points ahead as he walks back to the passenger door. He's just returned from talking to the driver in the sedan in front of them, trying to get a better idea of what's the hold up. When he sits down next to Sam, Puck rolls the window down, so that the women in the other car can hear him better.

"Look," he starts, "the guy I spoke to said he heard that everyone is being directed to a refugee camp set up near Dayton. They have water, food, shelter… we can stay there until the quarantine gets lifted."

" _Quarantine_? They're calling _carpet bombing_ an entire _city_ a fucking _quarantine_?!"

"Hey hey hey! Their words, not mine!" Puck tries to placate the Latina."Truth is _none of us_ know what the hell went down back there, but I say we get to that camp and figure things out from there."

"I know you were getting soft in the head when you joined up with the military," Santana rebukes sweetly, "but what I'm hearing is that you're choosing to trust the same guys that _just bombed your fucking hometown, idiot!_ "

"You don't know that! You don't know if those fighter jets were ours!"

"Oh yeah, because every terrorist out there has their eye on bumfuck Lima!"

Rachel watches as the argument between the two quickly unfolds into a shouting match. But somehow the words don't seem to reach her. Everything still feels too surreal: Her being squeezed between two people in the back seat of Santana's car, with Tina muttering to herself to her left and Quinn pensively wringing her purse to her right; the line of cars patiently waiting to be let through the checkpoint, the flickering, glowing horizon of the place she grew up in behind her…

It's as if her mind refuses to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. As if as soon as they reach safety it will be revealed that everybody got evacuated in time and there are plausible explanations for everything. Yes, because this is not happening. Not to her, not to anyone, not really. That person was seriously deranged when he bit--

Puck and Santana's argument is interrupted by another conflict at the gate. The two might not have noticed, were it not for Brittany gently placing her hand on Santana's thigh; a gesture that immediately seems to divert the brunette's attention. Everybody's focus shifts to a guy obviously unhappy with having to wait as he is yelling and angrily gesticulating at the soldier stationed there. The soldier stretches out his right arm, palm upright, in a clear sign that the guy cannot go any further and should back off. There is more angry shouting and seeming threats. But when nothing seems to sway the guard, the guy reaches into his jacket. It doesn't matter if he's reaching for documents or any other means of persuasion. The soldier reacts immediately.

He aims his rifle and the civilian's hands fly upwards to comply with the soldier's sudden order. The door on the nearby car flies open and out emerges a girl, running to shield her parent, her forearm wrapped in a blood-soaked sweater. And then things really go awry.

They all see it before they hear it, but hearing the snapping of the automatic rifle leaves no doubt. The body of a child hits the ground. A grief-stricken father goes amok, leaping at the murderer. Soldiers rushing in to subdue him are met by twice as many civilians stepping out of their cars in outrage. It is very sobering to witness how little interest there is in a peaceful resolution before there's even more gunfire.

Panic breaks out. Some try to turn their cars around, some try to back out, some veer off into the field in the process. And the guns keep on snapping.

It's as if Rachel cannot hear anything but that. The snapping is louder than the people shouting, louder than the cars smashing into each other. It's too much. It's too much! This isn't happening! This needs to stop!

Rachel clutches at her ears and curls in on herself. The car lunges backwards and she gets jostled in her seat, falling sideways where another body immediately folds over her, shielding her. Rachel remains curled up, an odd sense of solace settling over her from being engulfed in this way.

Everything almost becomes silent again. Everything stills and time fades away into irrelevance. She's only aware of it having passed at all when the car finally stops.

She hears the door slam, the quick angry footsteps and then the angry slap. She hears the slew of profanities in Spanish being hurled afterwards. The body above her lifts away and Rachel almost protests, but then also straightens and blinks sleepily.

Outside, Puck rubs at his cheek. Opposite him, a hand is being thrust in the direction they came from.

"Is that the military that was supposed to shelter us _until they lift the quarantine_?!"

Puck glares but doesn't say a word.

"What the fuck is even happening?! First Lima gets _bombed_ , now _THIS_ , and Artie gets fucking _butchered_ by that-that--"

"Zombie."

Santana's features freeze.

"It was a zombie. I'm certain," Sam repeats.

Santana's expression slackens slightly. Her eyes widen, because the magnitude of what Sam just said sets in and she cannot dismiss that because it creeps up on her that he might just be right. This doesn't feel like some 'ordinary incident' like when some public protest is suppressed with police brutality or like nuking a whole city would be the proper way to contain some student shooting up a high school .

"This is the Zombie Apocalypse. This is happening." Sam says.

It’s not until she feels Brittany's arms slide around her waist, that Santana able to breathe again.

\---

Rachel remembers the rest of that night now. They drove for several hours, mostly staying off the main roads, trying to avoid any and all military roadblocks, searching for a motel to hunker down for the night. Running low on gas, they eventually stopped at a gas station where they encountered a single clerk, bored by his night shift and seemingly oblivious to the chaos outside of his fluorescently illuminated premises. His calm apathy made them question the gravity of the entire night's events. Were they overreacting? What had really happened to the world outside while they were in that diner earlier that fateful night? They haven't seen anyone for miles. But that was somehow more unnerving than seeing actual corpses everywhere _._ Then there was the darkness. Every village, every town or city seemed to have had the power cut. And last, but not least - they _still_ couldn't make one damn phone call.

In the end, they could only take so many detours and side roads. It felt like they were driving in circles. Ever the decisive one, it was Santana who parked the car in the driveway of a deserted-looking house and refused to carry on or let anyone else take the wheel until she had some sleep.

"You can't just go to sleep!" Puck protested.

"Like hell I can't. Watch me." And she started off towards the entrance.

"Santana stop! You can't just…"

"Can't just what? Because it's not like we have a better plan. Or one at all. And don't get me started about that refugee camp again Puckerman, because I swear--" she threatened.

Having found her voice, Rachel wanted to agree, but someone already beat her to it, voicing her thoughts: "She's right."

And it was Quinn. "We don't have a plan, we don't know where we're going and it's still rather dark. I say we stay until daylight and then see from there."

"Where even are we?" Tina asked.

"Somewhere near Ansonia. I saw a sign a few miles ago."

"Finn mentioned his Grandma used to live here." Rachel blurted out, wanting to contribute _something_ to the discussion and only then realizing how uncomfortable it made everybody. "…But she passed away a long time ago." she mumbled as an afterthought.

"Or _maybe_ Nana Hudson's out there prowling the streets now, gnawing on the limbs of random bystanders. Oh I know! We can go ask her for some directions!" Santana remarked.

"She's not—" Sam interjected, "Santana, that's not exactly how zombie's work."

"Oh no?" she wheeled around on him, "Well then, being _short_ of one huge _nerd_ , why don't you take his place and enlighten the class?"(Here, Brittany mumbled something about Artie being actually five foot six) " _How exactly_ does this work?"

Nobody protested much after that. Nobody dared. To be quite honest, to Rachel it seemed like everybody was just too tired to stand up to Santana. They all just looked too drained.

And then again, what difference did it make if they spent one night in a motel or in a house with the front door wide open? Though the whole thing did raise some suspicion, it didn't look like a trap. The house just looked abandoned, but not desolate. No broken windows, no blemishes, no overturned or smashed furniture, no stains on the carpets or across the walls, no signs of struggle. Whoever had lived there, lived there recently. And left recently, too. In their haste, they left the door wide open like they did not plan on coming back.

Rachel wondered, whether it was because they saw the bombing. But considering the distance from Lima she wondered whether they knew about the bombing at all. Or were they told to make a run for it by someone on TV or the radio before both went dead? Were they at the refugee camp? Were they even _safe_? Would she and the rest of the group even be safe by staying here?

Once inside, they came to realize the house wasn't all that spacious after all. After they made sure every room was indeed entirely empty, Santana commandeered the one bedroom, threatening to shank anyone who woke her up before noon. Matt, being the other driver, crashed out next to her fifteen minutes later. Despite the protest from her wife, Brittany insisted on sleeping in an armchair, claiming she had learned in high school how to sleep in any position, even with her eyes open, using this talent for power naps in several of Mr Schue's Spanish classes or pep talks. The others gathered in the living room. It took some persuasion to talk Tina into laying down on the couch, but even when she did Sam and Mike stayed close to her on the floor, talking to her in calming voices. But no matter how small Rachel was, she couldn't quite fold her limbs into a comfortable enough position in the large chair she chose. Or maybe she couldn't fall asleep, because Puck would keep appearing beside her every few minutes to glare outside the window, then leave to do the same at the other side of the house.

As her eyes followed his retreating figure, they were met with Quinn's staring back at her from across the room. Rachel could never tell what went on inside the blonde's mind when she looked at her like that, but she knew it never made her uneasy. Right now it made her feel… studied, checked upon. But with no expression attached. Rachel returned the poker face unwavering, until Quinn stood and went to the kitchen after Noah. She heard the low murmur of their voices and it was oddly soothing. Soon she felt her lids grow heavy and her eyes slid shut.

Rachel woke with a start.

Eyes darting around her surroundings, it took her a moment to untangle reality from dreams, but when her mind did, she let a long relieved sigh. Just a bad dream.

Just a bad dream, only that _she_ was the driver and _she_ ran over Artie and _she_ went to inspect his lying body then he suddenly lashed out and sliced her throat open, so she couldn't scream as he continued to blame and claw at her.

Her hand reached up to touch the unharmed skin of her neck and Rachel realized there was a blanket draped over her. It hadn't been there before.

Rachel got up from the arm chair and silently, as to not wake up anybody else, made her way towards the bathroom. Through the doorway to the kitchen she spotted Quinn and Puck - sitting side-by-side with their backs against the cabinets, Quinn's head on Puck's shoulder, both fast asleep and looking peaceful.

A pang of sadness tugged at Rachel. She envied the comfort and solace they provided to each other. She wished she could have that. Then she remembered the arms shielding her in the car. Yeah, something like that.

The telltale stinging in her nose made her hurry to the bathroom. She locked the door behind her, sat down on the toilet seat and for the first time since all went to hell Rachel allowed herself to cry. Something about her sadness, something about the feelings of guilt, something about being careful not to be heard it all felt like high school all over again.

\---

It was the sun tickling her eyelids that made Rachel realize she had fallen asleep a second time on the hard tiled floor, propped against the bath tub. Well that, and somebody tapping at the bathroom door. She was about to respond that she'll be right out when it dawned on her that the noise didn't have a wooden quality to it at all.

It came from the window.

Rachel's expression tensed up with unease. She opened her eyes and tentatively glanced sideways.

Steadily and tirelessly, a bloodied figure kept hitting the glass pane with its head. As if trying to walk through, but not quite grasping how windows worked, its arms hung limply, unutilized. Nevertheless a crack was already forming and spreading and-

Rachel screamed.

She screamed so loud she was sure it woke up the entire house. The zombie wheezed in response and Rachel scrambled to her feet to get out of there as quickly as possible. In the hall she nearly ran into Sam. He grabbed her by the arms, looking her over frantically.

"Rach, you ok?"

"Yeah, bu-but there's a--"

"You guys?!" came Mike's voice from the living room, "I think we might have a problem!"

From around the corner they saw Mike backing away from the living room window from where another familiar tapping echoed. The others came stumbling from the bedroom and kitchen, disheveled and bleary-eyed and thoroughly alarmed. To Rachel it felt like the tapping became louder with every second. No telling how many more of them were outside.

"Everybody grab your stuff! We're leaving!" came Puck's command.

"But how do we know there's not more of them out front?" Tina countered in panic.

"Dude, we don't even have _weapons_ ," Matt pointed out. And as much as neither of them was too keen to start smashing skulls, they had to agree. They were defenseless.

Puck did not respond. Instead he went back into the kitchen where he flipped over the small wooden table. Rachel thought it a bit of an extreme reaction right up until he kicked at and broke off one of the table's legs.

He hoisted it up and slung it nonchalantly onto his shoulder. "We have four of these," he gestured.

\---

The front door flew open and slammed against the wall aggressively. Features firmly set, Puck walked out, turning his head as he surveyed the drive way. The zombie, his attention momentarily diverted from the window, stumbled towards him. Puck gripped the table leg firmly and swung, full force, hitting him squarely in the chin in a clean uppercut that knocked the walker backwards and to the floor. While the corpse attempted to get to its feet again, everybody rushed to the cars.

It felt ridiculous, abandoning their shelter because of two zombies that would have been easily dealt with. But this 'shelter' wasn't _theirs_ to begin with and they hadn’t exactly planned on staying anyway.

A few miles later and out of harm's way, the two vehicles stopped at what seemed to be a rest area by the side of the road. They needed to decide their next steps, which was a discussion no one cared to have the previous night. Or make that no one cared to have another argument about. Some leaned against the cars, some sat on the hood, some kept their arms crossed, some ate in silence, but no one was broaching the subject.

Rachel was sitting sideways on the backseat with the door wide open. The dress she was still wearing since last night gave her little protection against the morning chill. But the irony of it was that she didn't feel as cold on the outside as she felt inside. She shivered and rubbed at her arms.

There was a mute standoff happening between Puck and Santana. She was the second driver and she wouldn't give to keys to anybody else. She was also the one that pulled over to the rest area. It was an act of defiance and she made it clear that she wouldn't just follow Matt's lead. Or Puck's for that matter. Everybody knew that without her car the group wasn't going anywhere. And nobody wanted to split up either.

Matt was the first one to scoff in exasperation: "Come on, Santana. This is ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? _Ridiculous_ , Matt, is you vanishing for four seasons--sorry, _years_ , without so much as a goodbye party (by the way? So not cool). _That's_ ridiculous. Also the inane idea that we'll be safe in Dayton."

"It's not like we have anyplace else to go," Puck snarled trying to keep his temper in check.

"So we won't," Santana retorted calmly."I don't know about you, but that crib back there wasn't all that bad. I think we could have handled those two deadheads just fine. And any others that would come waddling our way. I mean, it's basically self-defense, right? Besides, for shit having hit the supposed fan, I'm not seeing that much havoc. Do you? We have hardly seen any other people since that checkpoint last night. Living or otherwise. So I guess what I'm proposing is that we find another nice, cozy, _abandoned_ place, make ourselves comfortable and wait for whatever this shit is to blow over. Chances are your trusted military will handle this as quickly as they 'handled' Lima. And to be honest I'd much rather be avoiding getting bit than avoid getting shot at."

And with that Santana folded her arms again, letting her words sink in.

Incredulous, Puck grimaced. "You want to _wait out_ the _apocalypse_?!"

"So it's an apocalypse now? No longer a _quarantine_?" Santana sassed back.

"But why wait it out here when we could be waiting it out at a _fort?!_ "

"Dayton doesn't have a fort."Brittany quipped.

" _Exactly_." Santana shot her an appreciative smile."It's not a fort. For all we know, it could have shit defenses. And honestly, keeping that many people in one place is like throwing a barbeque party near a Weight Watchers Sanatorium. Zombies _will_ come-a-flockin'."

"But what if our families made it there?" Matt hedged.

Santana's face went suddenly emotionless and rigid. "Our families are dead," she deadpanned.

Matt shook his head. "How can you be so--"

"Oh I'm sorry. Did your family posses some kind of magical teleport that beamed them out before everything turned into fucking gravel?!"

"No. I mean, we had moved a while ag--"

"--fuck you, Matt!"

"Santana!" Puck warned.

"And fuck you too! Just because there's a chance that Matt's parents made it--"

"Enough," Quinn said and it was fascinating to witness how even after years Santana immediately quieted at the order. Guess old habits died hard.

" _All_ of our families might have made it to Dayton," Quinn was careful to make eye contact with everyone, "Or they didn't. Either way, we'll never know unless we try."

Her proposal was met with a murmur of agreements. However Quinn wasn't finished and for the next part she met Santana's gaze directly: "But I agree that the military cannot be trusted. So if any of our relatives made it, we can't just leave them there. We have to get them out," she concluded, hazel eyes trying to convey the urgency to dark ones. The silent exchange was interrupted by Rachel.

"I can only hope my family made it to safety. But I want to be sure. And-and if they're not in Dayton, that camp will be the first place capable of contacting any other camps to see who else made it and where they are."

Santana's features visibly relaxed, but only in a sense that they went from antagonistic to guarded.

"What makes you think they'll let us leave the camp once we get inside?"

"Not all of us have to," said Puck. "A few of us can get in, gather intel, sneak out and report back to you guys."

"Count me in," came from Sam.

"Me too," said Tina.

Quinn nodded. "Once we get closer to Dayton, we can pick a place outside of the camp for the rest of us to stay at. We'll have to fortify it and probably scavenge for resources until our scouts return. We'll also have to gather extra supplies for however many family members will be joining us. And maybe until then most of this epidemic will be over. So, what do you say? All in favor of this plan raise your hand?"

The vote was nearly unanimous. Even Brittany's arm went up. All looked to Santana. She was outnumbered, but that didn't stop her from rolling her eyes as she reluctantly joined the others' accord.

\---

They were on their way. They were on a rescue mission and though that fact alone invigorated some, to Rachel it didn't feel like one. Something inside kept twisting with worry. She wouldn't be able to relax until she saw, until she _knew_ … what exactly? She dared not go down that road of thought. And so hope continued to wage a war with worry inside of her.

For the fifth time since morning Brittany fiddled with the radio. Nothing, just all kinds of white noise. It was unnerving. Wouldn't there have been at least some emergency message recorded at one of the frequencies? They were close now, and though they still kept off the main roads in order to avoid potential road blocks something didn't feel right.

Rainclouds were darkening the horizon, but she could still spot several pillars of smoke in the distance. A sharp intake of breath to her right told Rachel that she wasn't the only one that noticed.

"Do-do you guys see that?" Tina carefully asked.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," was Santana's response, "it might be coming from the city, it doesn't have to have anything to do with the camp."

"The city is more to the left," Brittany pointed out and this time Santana wasn't that happy with her wife stating the obvious. It certainly didn't help to lower the tension inside the car.

"Maybe we should," Rachel started, then Matt's car in front of them suddenly sped up.

Santana cursed in a low growl and she stepped on the gas pedal to keep up.

\---

They say that all heroes come in the nick of time.

But they weren't heroes.

They were too late.

They didn't reach the camp in time. And now they didn't dare to. From this distance they had the perfect view of the premises anyway. A view of what was left of them.

The gate was wide open. The few civilian cars and army jeeps left in the parking lot were all smashed to some degree or rammed into each other. One of the warehouses on the opposite end had apparently burned down during the night. Some of the tents that were still standing had lines of bullet holes on the side. And when the wind blew, it ruffled paper, plastic, all sorts of trash that was littering the ground in its path.

No survivors. Just blood stains and streaks and splatters. And corpses. A pyre of bodies wrapped in canvas still burned in the other far corner of the encampment. The cremation wasn't to give them a funeral. It was a precaution. Yet there was no one left to give the other bodies strewn across the grounds, hunched against the barricades or just a limb peeking from beneath a jeep, a proper funeral. Rachel thought she saw movement in the burned down warehouse remains. But it didn't make her feel hopeful. It twisted her insides with dread.

Everything they saw pointed to the opposite of hope. And it hurt. It hurt in a numb, suffocating, dull way.

From beside Puck, eyes never leaving the camp, Santana's cynical voice cut through the shell-shocked silence:

"So **_now_** do we wait out the apocalypse?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone that keeps reading. Also commenting. It actually means a lot.  
> I know everyone keeps saying/feeling that this fandom is over, but thank you for sticking around.  
> (Personally, I'm not going anywhere.)
> 
> And shoutout to the anon who who found me on tumblr. Hope you're reading this. It helped.


	7. Chapter 7

Before, you always saw those articles, how a zombie apocalypse wouldn't happen. How it couldn't happen. How it would be over in a week or two, how it wasn't possible for it to spread out of control, especially in their modern, gun-toting society and on the watch of the ever progressive pharmaceutical industry. And lo and behold, six, seven months later, Quinn is still waiting. But not for the cavalry anymore.

Then again, waiting was the only safe choice they had back then. Wait a week, see what happens. Surely the military would intervene and they could go back to normal. Or a cure would surface and they could go back to normal. Yeah right. A week turned into two, two turned into three, and so on. Help never came. 'Back to normal' never came. Scavenging, surviving, _waiting_ was the 'new normal'.

Just like now.

It's been three hours. Thank god the windows muffle the noise to a bearable level. Even though listening to a burglar alarm for three hours is anything but.

Back then they didn't expect how annoyingly regular, how _normal_ waiting would become for them. 'Wait' for the walkers to shuffle out of earshot before making any noise by barricading their shelter. 'Wait' for the daylight, because scavenging in the night is extremely risky. 'Wait' for the weather to become more favorable. 'Wait' for the others to return with supplies, materials, anything really.

Wait for the fucking house alarm to stop.

Sometimes, they would spend that time talking, sometimes they couldn't speak at all. Sometimes they needed to stay extra quiet when a hoard was shambling past. No talking, no moving, nothing until the coast was clear. Quinn always kept a book at hand for those moments (God, how she wishes she had a good novel on her right now… she must check the bookcase in the corner later).

Sometimes they taught each other things. It was Rachel's initiative, even though Tina and Sam were kind of the ones that started it. Tina took a first aid course in college, Sam knew a few things about herbs from the camping trips with his family. One day they were exchanging notes and tips when Rachel joined them, listening eagerly. From there on it became a regular thing among all nine of them. By sharing knowledge, they taught each other how to treat minor injuries, how to cook a few simple meals, how to tie knots, how to sow and mend clothing, how to swing their self-made weapons, how to avoid or block attacks, and even how to pick locks. Ironically enough, who would've thought that getting educated would be the one thing that would keep their morale up the most?

But that was because it gave them something to do. Something other than just wait. And for that matter worst of all were the watch duties. When you had to keep on the lookout. In silence. No sudden movements. Peering outside through whatever crack between boards or through a thin tear in the fabric hung across the window. For hours. Just observing, making sure the zees don't figure out your location, then stealthily moving on to the next watch station. It was mind-numbing. It was maddening. It was a highly paranoid kind of waiting game.

She hated it. As the cheer captain she was used to the pressure of responsibility, but not like this. It wasn't victory at a cheering championship that was at stake. It wasn't about impressing coach Sylvester enough to keep the squad from running suicides for the rest of the cheer practice. No. This pressure was worse. This was about monitoring both the outside and inside. This was about being the bitch that shushed people when the noise in the shelter got to a conspicuous point. This was about whether or not a walker got too close, so somebody would have to go outside and dispatch them. This was about ensuring that the people returning from supply runs could make it safely back inside. You had to be aware of every detail. You had to have a good sense for evaluating the threat. You had to make the right call.

And she neglected all of that when she chose to break into the house next door.

Quinn sighs and bunts the back of her head against the door she's still sitting at.

So much for good intentions. How could she have been so foolish? With all the lucky breaks she had recently, she could expect that her luck _would_ run out eventually. And usually when it did, it would do so colossally. Because that's how the universe worked for Quinn Fabray. The rug would never stay too long beneath her feet.

She was lucky enough to drive them to safety on a flat tire. Then there were the tools Rachel found, the tree house, how fast they managed to find a replacement car, escaping the tree house and dealing with that whole situation… All in all they had a pretty good run so far. And Quinn does have humility enough to think her skills alone did not solely contribute to that. There was definitely a great amount of good fortune that played a part in it. After all, good fortune brought her back Rachel. Well. Kind of.

Or maybe it was Rachel, who brought about all these favorable events. Maybe it was Rachel that fortune smiled upon. Maybe Rachel was the lucky charm all along.

Lucky star.

Quinn's chest constricts.

She almost jeopardized all that. Her recklessness, her lack of forethought put them in danger. Maybe she's berating herself a bit too hard, but for crying out loud, she got them stranded _twice_ in the last 24 hours alone. And for what? For a bunch of painkillers to impress Rachel? Quinn is all too aware how readily compliant she's always been when it came to the petite brunette. But she cannot keep doing that. Not at the cost of caution and safety. And survival.

There is a lesson in this, Quinn realizes then. She needs to be more mindful, even more careful from now on. She's aware that she cannot guarantee any more mistakes, but she _will_ learn from them. _This_ is a lesson she is willing to learn. Quinn just hopes she will be able to make good on this promise.

And for that they need to get out of here safely.  
\---

  
Rachel's lying on the bed.

Of course, once she peeled off the dust covered duvet and flipped the pillow over. But after that, being able to lie down on a real mattress for a change felt heavenly. Now if only the noise from the other house would… would just _stop_ , so she could close her eyes and sleep for a while. Especially after that last flash back. Though it did help reduce her headache to a dull throbbing in the back of her head. Which is flippin’ fantastic, she thought sarcastically. But now she's just curled on her side, staring ahead at nothing.

It's been three hours.

Three hours of waiting.

Ironically enough, to Rachel it feels longer than that. Longer than three hours, longer than the last three days. With that last flashback, Rachel could say that she's finally starting to be aware of how it actually feels like more than 7 months… since they started _waiting_. Well, amongst other things.

Strange, how that works.

It no longer feels like she spent just the last three days with biding her time, making sure to stay quiet, foraging, sneaking, running from the undead. Rachel is becoming increasingly aware that she has… skills. And habits.

She's not sure what they all are or how they work. But it's like now when she looks at an object or place she gets an _urge_. She instinctively or intuitively knows 'whether' and 'how' she should interact with each one.

Take for instance the dresser across the room. Rachel looks at it and her mind presents her images of another dresser in another room, at another point in the past. Or a wardrobe, or a closet, or just drawers being opened and her hands rifling through them, occasionally picking up an item of clothing, squinting as she guessed whether the size would fit her or anybody else of their group.

Because they couldn't stay forever in the same clothes from that first night and they couldn't afford to waste water on washing the ones that would get dirty over time. Santana used to gripe how they all ended up looking like Rachel's high school fashion sense. But it's not like they had a choice. Take what you can get or stay cold. Or worse. _Smell_ and attract the walkers' attention. Speaking of which-

Rachel attempts to _stealthily_ sniff her own armpit. She immediately grimaces and glances at Quinn. Luckily though, Quinn is hovering by the window, trying to get a glimpse of the situation outside and doesn't pay her any attention. Because that would've been embarrassing.

Still, with all the running and sweating she's been doing lately and without the luxury of an antiperspirant, Rachel's quite certain her body odor must be twice as apparent to anyone other than herself. And considering the fact, that they locked themselves in a room that obviously used to belong to a girl, she might as well go check out if there's something clean and wearable left. At least it will give her something to do.

\---

Quinn's trying to find the best angle, but unfortunately this is as good a viewing angle as it will get, if she doesn't want to move the heavy writing desk that sits in front of the window. It's not worth the risk of causing noise. So she's wedged in the small gap between the bed and the desk, trying to look outside without _being seen from the outside_. Her view may be further obstructed by the roof of the garage that's attached to the side of this house, but even so it gives her a good idea about the size of the crowd that's been drawn by the alarm next door.

It's not a pretty sight. Even with a small town like this, Quinn guesses there are at least a hundred walkers outside (no telling how many made it inside). And judging by the ceaseless blaring, none of the raging ones managed to locate and bash in the speakers nor the control box. Which means that 1) they're well hidden and 2) the security over there had to be pretty high-end, so that means they might be here for quite a long time.

But that's a no go. They cannot wait here until the battery on the alarm dies. Since they went out to scavenge briefly and then intended to head straight to pick up the car they discovered yesterday, they only took very little rations with them (another mistake). Outlasting this potential siege scenario with increasing thirst and hunger is a recipe for disaster. Also, even if the alarm would stop right now, it would be another few hours before the masses disperse. It might be past nightfall by then. And they absolutely cannot spend the night in here, no matter how secure it seems at the moment. Navigating back to the tree house in the dark is a risk she won't take. Not this time. Not anymore.

The good news is that no more zombies seem to be joining the horde. Which means that if they sneak away now they hopefully wouldn't cross paths with any stray walker and even might make it to the tree house with their new ride to retrieve their gear from the locked trunk without being followed. And if they choose their path right and leave from the opposite side, this house might even help shield them from view.

So now's a good time as any.

From the corner of her eye, some movement catches Quinn's attention. She turns her head and flushes a deep shade of red.

Rachel is standing with her back to the full length mirror in the corner and glancing over her shoulder at the lower half of her reflection. She seems to be inspecting the oval bruise and cuts and welts that mark the underside of her knee. …And not wearing any pants while doing so.

Quinn can't look away. Or doesn't want to. Which means that eventually Rachel notices.

The brunette's head snaps in Quinn's direction, then immediately tilts downward in embarrassment.

"I was just looking… at…" Why is it so awkward to admit she's been curious about her bite mark in front of Quinn? It's not like she's ashamed of her body, so why are her cheeks heating up?

Quinn opens her mouth, then finally responds with "It, um, it seems to be healing fast." And before she can stop herself, she adds, "…it looked worse a few days ago."

Rachel's eyes widen. "Oh." So Quinn definitely saw when--

"You should get ready," the blonde mumbles, "We're leaving."

\---

They descend the stairs slowly, carefully. To Quinn it's more of a force of habit rather than it being really that necessary to stay noiseless. The alarm is still going, after all. Even though here, downstairs, the noise does seem a tad more muted.

Rachel follows close behind, self-consciously pulling at the jeans she changed into. They are a bit of a loose fit and Quinn insisted on cutting off a good two inches off the hem on each leg. Said she didn't want to risk Rachel tripping and falling, if they need to run. Rachel argued against that with rolling them up instead and securing them with the safety pins attached to Quinn's backpack.

Even though Quinn does her best at placing her feet in the most footstep-muffling ways(after all, when they went up, she was a bit too preoccupied with getting them to safety, than with how much noise they were making) no amount of stealth can keep the railing from creaking when Rachel leans into it a bit too much.

It is answered by a rustling from the living room.………………………….and t _here_ it goes again. And suddenly Quinn **_knows_** all that paranoia has just been justified. They're not alone in here.

She stops and reaching back she halts Rachel as well.

"Walker," she throws over her shoulder.  
  
Fortunately, Rachel catches on fast that something is amiss already when the blonde stops moving and the one-worded reason only makes things click into place faster.

She nods and immediately feels like an idiot, because Quinn can't possibly see that with her back turned to Rachel.

Unfortunately the living room happens to be on the same side of the house as their intended escape route. So for Quinn this will be her seventh kill of this day alone. Or seventh _and_ eighth… or even ninth. God, just the seventh, please.

Making it off the staircase they turn left, through a narrow hall that leads to the door to the living room. The walls are full of picture frames, Rachel notes, but the longer her gaze lingers on them, the more it feels like she's intruding.

In the meantime, Quinn is focused on the door handle, readjusting the grip on her bat and biting her lip nervously. This will have to go fast. Under no circumstance must the deadhead (or deadhead **s** ) on the other side manage to howl, otherwise the hundred or so corpses next door will do some pretty quick reevaluation of their whereabouts. Quinn squints and gulps. Her throat feels dry; she already drank all her water. It serves as a good reminder of why she needs to get in there and get them out of here. Enter, dispatch, escape.

Right.

The door swings open and--

\--there are no zombies in Quinn's sight; just a room in disarray. She chances a step forward to look behind the door, when something brushes against her shoe and she nearly has a heart attack. She twists around to see what it was, but it throws her off balance. Just as she's falling on her back, she spots the zombie, or what's left of it, reaching and clawing at her from the floor, a mutilated torso separated from the rest of its body that's obviously festering somewhere underneath the massive overturned bookcase.

It's stuck, but that doesn't prevent it from grasping blindly ahead, wheezing and squelching in its agitation. It's dreadful to behold, especially were you to remind yourself that this too was once a thinking, feeling human being.

But Quinn knows better than to allow herself such sentimental thinking. She also manages to snap herself out of her surprise just in time, because frustrated in its fruitless effort, the zombie bends and flexes in preparation of the howl.

It all happens so fast, that Rachel only sees how a blur of blonde lunges forward just as the corpse arches its back to use its vocal chords. Something glints through the air and then everything stills. Quinn is hunched over the unmoving body, then twitches and a crunch follows. When she stands up, Rachel gets a good look at the blade of Quinn's knife jammed deeply into the skull, only the handle sticking out of the eye socket.

When Quinn puts her shoe to the finally-deceased's head to pull the knife out Rachel finally looks away, suddenly sick to her stomach.

There's nothing to be said.

Quinn wipes the blade against the carpet. She's almost on her feet again and headed towards the windows that they'll exit through, when her eyes land on the spine of a yellow paperback. She reaches for it. _'The Lord of the Flies'_. Quinn smirks and takes it.

So. Just the seventh kill. Thank god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you again for all of your amazing comments and reviews. It is truly an honor that this story draws in even the ones of you that are not so keen on the whole zombie!apo setting. I promis I will work even harder to 'get it right'. ;)


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